


The Girl That Shouldn't Be: Book Two

by skarletfyre



Series: The Girl That Shouldn't Be [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-08 23:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 74,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15254190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: "Ever since Harry and Violet had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating them like a pair of bombs that might go off at any moment, because Harry and Violet Potter weren’t normal children. As a matter of fact, they were as not normal as it was possible to be.Harry was a wizard, and Violet was a witch — fresh from their first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have them back for the holidays, it was nothing to how the twins themselves felt."* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *This is the second part of my (for the most part) canon-compliant rewrite of the Harry Potter series, told from the perspective of a character that doesn't exist. Violet Potter is Harry's twin sister. This is, as faithfully as I can make it, the story of what would happen if she were there.





	1. The Worst Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> I want to give a huge thanks to everyone who supported the first part of this series and wanted to see it continued, it really means the world to me! Violet is a character that's been just in my head for a long time and putting her out into the world for real has been really nerve-wracking, but I'm so happy to see so many people liking and responding positively to her.
> 
> I plan to continue this series all the way to the end, through book 7. It's probably going to take me a while, but I'll try to update as regularly as possible. If you're just finding this fic, please start from the beginning with Book One!!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Not for the first time, an argument had broken out over breakfast at number four, Privet Drive. Mr. Vernon Dursley had been woken up in the early hours of the morning by a loud hooting noise from the room belonging to his niece Violet and nephew Harry.

“Third time this week!” he roared across the table. “If you can’t control that owl, it’ll have to go!”

Harry tried, yet again, to explain.

“She’s  _ bored, _ ” he said. “She’d used to flying around outside. If I could just let her out at night —”

“Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Vernon, a bit of fried egg dangling from his bushy mustache. “I know what’ll happen if that owl’s let out.”

He exchanged dark looks with his wife, Petunia.

Harry tried to argue back, but his words were drowned by a long, loud belch from the Dursley’s son, Dudley.

“I want more bacon.”

“There’s more in the frying pan, sweetums,” said Aunt Petunia, turning misty eyes on her massive son. “We must build you up while we’ve got the chance . . . I don’t like the sound of that school food . . .”

“Nonsense, Petunia, I never went hungry when  _ I _ was at Smeltings,” said Uncle Vernon heartily. “Dudley gets enough, don’t you, son?”

Dudley, who was so large his bottom drooped over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Violet.

“Pass the frying pan.”

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” said Violet irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence on the rest of the family was incredible: Dudley gasped and fell off his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Dursley gave a small scream and clapped her hands to her mouth; Mr. Dursley jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

“I meant ‘please’!” said Violet quickly. “I didn’t mean —”

“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered her uncle, spraying spit over the table, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN MY HOUSE?”

“But I —”

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN DUDLEY!” roared Uncle Vernon, pounding the table with his fist. Harry tried to add voice to his sister’s defense, but to no avail.

“She just —”

“I WARNED YOU! I WILL NOT TOLERATE MENTION OF YOUR ABNORMALITY UNDER THIS ROOF!”

Violet stared from her purple-faced uncle to her pale aunt, who was trying to heave Dudley to his feet.

“All right,” said Violet, “ _ all right _ . . .”

Uncle Vernon sat back down, breathing like a winded rhinoceros and watching the twins closely out of the corners of his small, sharp eyes.

Every since Harry and Violet had come home for the summer holidays, Uncle Vernon had been treating them like a pair of bombs that might go off at any moment, because Harry and Violet Potter weren’t  _ normal _ children. As a matter of fact, they were as not normal as it was possible to be.

Harry was a wizard, and Violet was a witch — fresh from their first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Dursleys were unhappy to have them back for the holidays, it was nothing to how the twins themselves felt.

They missed Hogwarts so much it was like having a constant stomach ache. They missed the castle, with its secret passages and ghosts, their classes, the mail arriving by owl, eating banquets in the Great Hall, sleeping in their four-poster beds in their separate dormitories, visiting the gamekeeper, Hagrid, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest in the grounds, and Harry especially missed Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (played on broomsticks.)

All of their spellbooks, their wands, robes, cauldrons, and Harry’s top-of-the-line broomstick had been locked in a cupboard under the stairs by Uncle Vernon the instant the twins had come home. What did the Dursleys care if Harry lost his place on the House Quidditch team because he hadn’t practiced all summer? What was it to the Dursleys if Violet went back to school without any of her homework done? The Dursleys were what wizards called Muggles (not a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a pair of wizards in the family was a matter of deepest shame. Uncle Vernon had even padlocked Harry’s owl, Hedwig, inside her cage, to stop carrying messages to anyone in the wizarding world. Crookshanks, Violet’s enormous ginger cat, was lucky to avoid similar treatment. Not only was Uncle Vernon unable to get near him, but any time he stepped in the room Crookshanks would begin emitting a loud, terrifying yowl.

Violet and Harry looked nothing like the rest of the family. Uncle Vernon was large and neckless, with an enormous black mustache; Aunt Petunia was horse-faced and bony; Dudley was blonde, pink, and porky. The twins, on the other hand, were small and skinny, with brilliant green eyes and jet-black hair that was always untidy. Harry’s liked to stick up at odd angles while Violet’s liked to wind itself into tangles and knots. The only other differences between them were Harry’s glasses, and the thin, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead.

It was  this scar that made Harry in particular so unusual, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of the twins’ very mysterious past, of the reason they had been left on the Dursley’s doorstep eleven years before.

At the age of one year old, Harry had somehow survived a curse from the greatest Dark sorcerer of all time, Lord Voldemort, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. His and Violet’s parents had died in Voldemort’s attack, but Violet had escaped unscathed and Harry with only his lightning scar, and somehow — nobody understood why — Voldemort’s powers had been destroyed the instant he failed to kill Harry.

So the twins had been brought up by their dead mother’s sister and her husband. They had spent ten years with the Dursleys, never understanding why they kept making odd things happen without meaning no, believing the Dursley’s story that their parents had died in a car crash.

And then, exactly a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Harry and Violet, and the whole story had come out. They had taken up their place at wizard school, where the pair of them were famous . . . but now the school year was over, and they were back at the Dursleys for the summer, back to being treated like dogs.

The Dursleys hadn’t even remembered that today happened to be Violet and Harry’s twelfth birthday. Of course, their hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never received a real present, let alone a cake — but for the Dursleys to ignore it completely . . .

At that moment, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat important and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”

The twins perked up and looked at each other, hardly daring to believe it.

“This could we be the day I make the biggest deal of my career,” said Uncle Vernon.

They went back to their toast. Of course Uncle Vernon was talking about the stupid dinner party. He’d been talking of nothing else for two weeks. Some rich builder and his wife were coming to dinner and Uncle Vernon was hoping to get a huge order from him (Uncle Vernon’s company made drills).

“I think we should run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle Vernon. “We shall all be in position at eight o’clock. Petunia, you will be —?”

“In the lounge,” said Aunt Petunia promptly, “waiting to welcome them graciously to our home.”

“Good, good. And Dudley?”

“I’ll be waiting to open the door.” Dudley put on a foul, simpering smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

“They’ve  _ love _ him!” cried Aunt Petunia rapturously.

“Excellent, Dudley,” said Uncle Vernon. Then he rounded on the twins.

“We’ll be in our bedroom, making no noise —” said Violet.

“— And pretending we don’t exist,” added Harry, in the same, toneless voice.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Vernon nastily. “I will lead them into the lounge, introduce you, Petunia, and pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”

“I’ll announce dinner,” said Aunt Petunia.

“And, Dudley, you’ll say —”

“May I take you through to the dining room, Mrs. Mason?” said Dudley, offering his fat arm to an invisible woman.

“My perfect little gentleman,” sniffed Aunt Petunia.

“And  _ you _ ?” said Uncle Vernon viciously to the twins.

“We’ll be in our room —” Violet repeated.

“— Making no noise —”

“— And pretending we’re not there.”

“Perfect . . . Dudley?”

“How about — ‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and  _ I _ wrote about  _ you. _ ”

This was too much for both Aunt Petunia and Harry. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and hugged her son, while Harry ducked under the table so they wouldn’t see him laughing.

“And you, boy?”

Harry struggled to keep his face straight as he emerged.

“We’ll be in our room,” he said, at the exact same time as Violet, “making no noise and pretending we aren’t there.”

“Too right you will,” said Uncle Vernon forcefully, though he looked perturbed; Uncle Vernon didn’t like it when the twins spoke together — but then he didn’t like anything else about them, either. “The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Petunia, and I’ll bring the subject around to drills. With any luck, I’ll have the deal signed and sealed before the news at ten. We’ll be shopping for a vacation home in Majorca this time tomorrow.”

Harry and Violet couldn’t feel too excited about this. They didn’t think the Dursleys would care for them any better in Majorca than they did on Privet Drive.

“Right — I’m off to town to pick up the dinner jackets for Dudley and me. And  _ you, _ ” he snarled at Violet. “You are to help your aunt with the cleaning.”

Harry shot Violet an apologetic look as he left through the back door. Violet followed her aunt dutifully into the kitchen, where she was set to scrubbing the stove and countertops until they shined.

It was a rubbish birthday so far. No cards, no presents, and they would be spending the evening pretending not to exist. She scrubbed fiercely at the stovetop, trying to get up a bit of cooked-on egg. She had never felt so lonely. More than anything else at Hogwarts, Violet missed her best friends, Tracey Davis and Cassius Warrington. Neither of them had written to her all summer, even though Tracey had said she was going to ask Violet to come and stay.

Harry hadn’t received any mail from his friends, either. Countless times the twins had been on the point of unlocking Hedwig’s cage by magic and sending her off with letters, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school. The twins hadn’t told the Dursleys this; they knew it was only their terror that they might all be turned into dung beetles that stopped them from locking Harry and Violet in the cupboard under the stairs with their wands and other supplies. For the first couple of weeks back, they had enjoyed muttering nonsense words under their breath and watching Dudley tearing out of the room as fast as his fat legs would carry him. But the long silence from their friends made the twins feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Dudley had lost its appeal — and now everyone had forgotten their birthday.

What wouldn’t they give now for a message from Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard? They’d almost be glad for a sight of their self-declared arch-enemy, Draco Malfoy, just to be sure it hadn’t all been a dream . . .

Not that their whole year at Hogwarts had been fun. At the very end of last term, Harry had come face-to-face with none other than Lord Voldemort himself. Voldemort might be a ruin of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still cunning, still determined to regain power. Harry had slipped through Voldemort’s clutches for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Violet would be woken up by her brother’s thrashing in his sleep, drenched in cold sweat, muttering unintelligibly —

Violet jumped at the sound of the screen door slamming shut; Dudley had gotten up from the breakfast table and waddled his way outside, likely to go and terrorize Harry.

Fortunately, Harry was more than capable of terrorizing him back, and after a few short moments Dudley was running screaming back into the house, howling that Harry had used ‘you-know-what’ on him.

Harry paid dearly for this moment of fun. As neither Dudley or anything in the back yard was hurt in any way, Aunt Petunia knew he hadn’t really done magic, but she was still furious with him. She gave him extra work to do, with the promise he wouldn’t eat again until he’d finished.

While Dudley lolled around watching television and eating ice cream, the twins were busy cleaning the entire house, inside and out — Violet was fortunately allowed to remain inside and out of the blistering sun, but Harry had no such luck. While he cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, and repainted the garden bench, Violet dusted every surface in the home, every knick-knack, polished every mirror and picture frame, vacuumed, swept, mopped, and waxed the floors. And when she was done with that, Aunt Petunia sent her outside as well to tend to the garden.

Gardening was Violet’s least favourite thing in the whole world. It was the one activity that Aunt Petunia seemed to enjoy, aside from spoiling her son, and she regularly roped Violet into joining her outside to trim the flowerbeds, prune and water the roses, and spread manure over it all so that everything grew back healthy and strong. Violet, who couldn’t stand the feeling of dirt under her fingernails and was prone to overheating from the sun beating down on her back, took little enjoyment from these ‘bonding’ sessions with her aunt.

It was half past seven in the evening when at last, exhausted, the twins heard Aunt Petunia calling them.

“Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”

The two of them moved gladly into the shade of the gleaming kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s pudding: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugared violets — the sight of which made Violet’s mood sour even further, knowing she wouldn’t be allowed to eat any of it. A loin of pork was sizzling in the oven.

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Aunt Petunia, pointing to two small plates containing slices of bread and lumps of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.

The twins washed their hands and bolted down their pitiful supper. The moment they had finished, Aunt Petunia whisked away their plates.

“Upstairs! Hurry!”

As they passed the door to the living room, the twins caught a glimpse of Uncle Vernon and Dudley in bow ties and dinner jackets. They had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Vernon’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“Remember, now — one sound —”

Harry and Violet crossed to their bedroom on tiptoe, slipped inside, closed the door, and turned to collapse together onto their shared bed.

The trouble was, there was already someone sitting on it.


	2. Dobby's Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet clapped her hands over her mouth to stop from shouting, but it was a close thing. The little creature on the bed had large, bat-like ears and bulging green eyes the size of tennis balls.

As they stared at each other, the twins heard Dudley’s voice from the hall.

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

The creature slipped off the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Violet noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for arm- and leg-holes.

“Er — hello,” said Harry nervously.

“Harry Potter, Violet Potter!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice the twins were sure would carry down the stairs. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you both . . . Such an honor it is . . .”

“Th-thank you,” said Violet, standing rooted to the spot as her brother edged along the wall and sunk into the desk chair, next to Hedwig, who was asleep in her large cage. She wanted to ask, “What are you?” but thought it would sound too rude, so instead she said, “Who are you?”

“Dobby, ma’am. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf,” said the creature.

“Oh — really?” said Harry. “Er — I don’t want to be rude or anything, but — this isn’t a great time for us to a have a house-elf in our bedroom.”

Aunt Petunia’s high, false laugh sounded from the living room. The elf hung his head.

“Not that we aren’t pleased to meet you,” said Violet quickly, “but, er, is there any particular reason you’re here?”

“Oh yes, ma’am,” said Dobby earnestly. “Dobby has come to tell you, both . . . it is difficult, sir . . . Dobby wonders where to begin . . .”

“Sit down,” said Harry politely, pointing to the bed.

To their horror, the elf burst into tears — very noisy tears.

“ _ S-sit down _ !” he wailed. “ _ Never . . . never ever  . . . _ ”

Violet thought she heard the voices downstairs falter.

“Sorry,” she whispered, shooting a desperate look at Harry, “he didn’t mean to offend you or anything —”

“Offend Dobby!” choked the elf. “Dobby has  _ never _ been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an  _ equal _ —”

Violet, trying to say “Shh!” and look comforting at the same time, ushered Dobby back onto the bed where he sat hiccoughing, looking like a large and very ugly doll. At last he managed to control himself, and sat with his great eyes flitting between Harry and Violet in an expression of watery adoration.

“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” said Harry, trying to cheer him up.

Dobby shook his head. Then, without warning, he leapt up and starting banging his head furiously on the window, shouting, “ _ Bad _ Dobby!  _ Bad _ Dobby!”

“Don’t — what are you doing?” Violet hissed, springing up and pulling Dobby back onto the bed — Hedwig had woken up with a particularly loud screech and was beating her wings wildly against the bars of her cage. “Harry, stop saying things to him, you’re making it worse!”

“Dobby had to punish himself, ma’am,” said the elf, who had gone slightly cross-eyed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, ma’am. . .”

“Your family?” Harry asked, ignoring the venomous look Violet shot him.

“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir . . . Dobby is a house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family forever . . .”

“Do they know you’re here?” asked Violet gently.

Dobby shuddered.

“Oh, no, ma’am, no . . . Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you both. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, ma’am —”

“But won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven door?”

“Dobby doubts it, sir. Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments . . .”

“But why don’t you leave?” Violet asked, feeling slightly sick to hear of such horrible things. “Escape?”

“A house-elf must be set free, ma’am. And the family will never set Dobby free . . . Dobby will serve the family until he dies, ma’am . . .”

Violet stared.

“And I thought it was bad staying here for another four weeks,” Harry said. “This makes the Dursleys sound almost human. Can’t anyone help you? Can’t we?”

Almost at once, Dobby dissolved again into wails of gratitude.

“Please,” Violet whispered frantically, “please, be quiet. If the Dursleys hear anything, if they know you’re here —”

“Harry Potter asks if he can help Dobby . . . Dobby has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Dobby never knew . . .”

Harry and Violet shared a look of incredulity between them. 

“Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness,” said Harry, looking very hot in the face, “is a load of rubbish. I’m not even top of my year at Hogwarts; that’s Violet, she —”

“I’m not great either!” said Violet quickly, shaking her head. “I got high marks in a few classes, but that’s all —”

“Harry Potter is humble and modest,” said Dobby reverently, his orb-like eyes aglow. “Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —”

“Voldemort?” said the twins together.

Dobby clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, “Ah, speak not the same! Speak not the name!”

“Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “I know lots of people don’t like it. My friend Ron —”

He stopped suddenly, a pained look coming over his face.

Dobby learned toward Harry, his eyes wide as headlights.

“Dobby heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago . . . that Harry Potter escaped  _ yet again _ .”

Harry nodded and Dobby’s eyes suddenly shone with tears.

“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the grubby pillowcase he was wearing. “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, and his sister, to warn them, even if he  _ does _ have to shut his ears in the oven door later . . .  _ The Potters must not go back to Hogwarts. _ ”

There was a silence broken only by the chink of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

It was at this point Crookshanks, Violet’s very large, very orange cat crawled out from beneath the bed and made himself known with a soft mew that that did not match his enormous body at all. Violet immediately reached down and lifted the cat into her lap, where he began purring and sniffing at Dobby. The elf recoiled slightly — he and Crookshanks were nearly the same size.

“W-what?” Harry stammered, sharing another look of confusion with his sister. “But we’ve got to go back — term stars on September first. It’s all that’s keeping us going. You don’t know what it’s like here. We don’t  _ belong _ here. We belong in your world — at Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Dobby, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped. “The Potters must stay stay safe where they are. They are too great, too good, to lose. If the Potters go back to Hogwarts, they will be in mortal danger.”

“Why?” said Violet in surprise.

“There is a plot, Violet Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Dobby, suddenly trembling all over. “Dobby has known it for months, ma’am. The Potters must not put themselves in peril. You are too important!”

“What terrible things?” said Harry at once. “Who’s plotting them?”

Dobby made a funny choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall.

“All right!” cried Violet, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop him. “You can’t tell us, we understand. But why are you warning  _ us _ ?” A sudden, unpleasant thought struck her. “Hang on — this hasn’t got to do with Vol — sorry — with You-Know-Who, has it? You could just shake or nod,” she added hastily, as Dobby’s head tilted worryingly close to the wall again.

Slowly, Dobby shook his head.

“Not — not  _ He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, _ ma’am —”

But Dobby’s eyes were wide and he seemed to be trying to give the twins a hint. However, they were completely lost.

“He hasn’t got a brother, has he?” said Harry.

Dobby shook his head, his eyes wider than ever.

“Well then, I can’t think who else would have a chance of making horrible things happen at Hogwarts,” Harry said. “I mean, there’s Dumbledore, for one thing — you know who Dumbledore is, don’t you?”

Dobby bowed his head.

“Albus Dumbledore is the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever had. Dobby knows it, sir. Dobby has heard Dumbledore’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir” — Dobby’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper — “there are powers Dumbledore doesn’t . . . powers no decent wizard . . .”

And before either of them could stop him, Dobby bounded off the bed, seized the desk lamp, and started beating himself around the head with earsplitting yelps.

A sudden silence fell downstairs. Two seconds later the twins, hearts thudding madly, heard Uncle Vernon coming into the hall, calling, “Dudley must have left his television on again, the little tyke!”

“Quick! In the closet!” hissed Violet, stuffing Dobby in, shutting the door, and flinging herself onto the bed just as the door handle turned.

“What — the —  _ devil _ — are — you — doing?” said Uncle Vernon through gritted teeth, glaring between the twins with his hateful little eyes. “You’ve just ruined the punchline of my Japanese golfer joke . . . One more sound and you’ll wish you’d never been born!”

He stomped flat-footed from the room.

Violet stayed frozen on the bed. Shaking, Harry let Dobby out of the closet.

“See what it’s like here?” he said. “See why we’ve got to go back to Hogwarts? It’s the only place we’ve got — well, I  _ think _ we’ve got friends.”

“Friends who don’t even write to the Potters?” said Dobby slyly. Violet’s eyes narrowed.

“How do  _ you _ know our friends haven’t been writing to us?”

Dobby shuffled his feet.

“The Potters mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best —”

“ _ Have you been stopping our letters _ ?” Harry hissed.

“Dobby has them here, sir,” said the elf. Stepping nimbly out of the twins reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Violet could make out Hermione Granger’s neat writing, Cassius’ blocky scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts gamekeeper, hagrid.

Dobby blinked anxiously up at them.

“The Potters musn’t be angry . . . Dobby hoped . . . if the Potters thought their friends had forgotten them . . . the Potters might not want to go back to school . . .”

Violet’s ears were ringing, but it was Harry who moved first. He made a grab for the letters, but Dobby jumped out of his reach.

“Harry Potter will have them, sir, if he gives Dobby his word that he will not return to Hogwarts — and Violet Potter, too! Ah, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, sir!”

“No,” said Harry angrily. “Give us our friends’ letters!”

“Then the Potters leave Dobby no choice,” said the elf sadly.

Before either of them could movie, Dobby had darted to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and sprinted down the stairs.

Mouths dry, stomachs lurching, the twins sprang after him, trying not to make a sound. Harry jumped the last six steps and landed catlike on the hall carpet while Violet slid noiselessly down the wooden bannister, looking around for Dobby. From the dining room they heard Uncle Vernon saying, “. . . tell Petunia that very funny story about those American plumbers, Mr. Mason. She’s been dying to hear . . .”

Violet tiptoed toward the laundry room while Harry ran up the hall into the kitchen. She looked frantically for any sign of the tiny elf, but there was neither hide nor hair of the little creature.

Then, from the kitchen, there came a heart-stopping crash.

Violet flattened herself against the wall and froze where she stood, listening to the shrieks of Aunt Petunia and Mrs. Mason, as well as the angry muttering of Uncle Vernon. Peering down the hall she could just barely see Harry, covered in splatters of cream, having a mop and bucket shoved into his fumbling hands. Violet had just started creeping back upstairs to the safety of their bedroom when there was another shriek from the dining room, followed by frantic footsteps running toward the door. Uncle Vernon was stomping to the kitchen when he caught sight of Violet, immobile in the hallway, and let out a mad roar.

“Get in here, girl!” he hissed evilly, branding a letter in his purple fist. “Read it — both of you!”

Violet, who had no idea where the letter had even come from, took it with a shaking hand and began to read aloud. It did not contain birthday greetings.

 

_ Dear Mr. and Ms. Potter, _

_ We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine. _

_ As you know, underage wizards and witches are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, paragraph C). _

_ We would ask you to remember that any magical activities that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy. _

_ Enjoy your holidays! _

_ Yours sincerely, _

 

_ Mafalda Hopkirk _

 

_ Mafalda Hopkirk _

_ IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE _

_ Ministry of Magic _

 

Violet looked up from the letter and gulped.

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said Uncle Vernon, a mad gleam dancing in his eyes. “Forgot to mention it . . . Slipped your minds, I daresay . . .”

He was bearing down on Violet like a great bulldog, all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you, girl . . . I’m locking you both up . . . You’re never going back to that school . . . never . . . and if you try and magic yourselves out — they’ll expell you!”

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Harry and Violet back upstairs.

Uncle Vernon was as bad as his word. The following morning, he paid a man to fit bars on Harry and Violet’s window. He himself fitted a cat-flap in the bedroom, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside three times a day (with a piece of hard plastic kept over it the rest of the time to prevent Crookshanks from wandering the house). They let the twins out to use the bathroom in the morning and evening. Otherwise, they were locked in their room around the clock.

 

Three days later, the Dursleys were showing no signs of relenting, and the neither Violet nor Harry could see any way out of this situation. They lay on their bed watching the sunk sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to them.

What was the point of magicking themselves out of the room if Hogwarts would expel them for doing it? Yet life at Privet Drive had reached an all-time low. Now that the Dursleys knew they weren’t going to wake up as fruit bats, the twins had lost their own weapon. Dobby might have saved them from horrible things happening at Hogwarts, but the way things were going, they’d probably starve to death anyway.

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Petunia’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the room. Violet, whose insides were aching with hunger, jumped off the bed and seized it. The soup was stone-cold, but she drank half of it one gulp. The other half went to Harry, to drank just as hungrily. With the broth gone, they picked through the remaining soggy meat and veggies and divvied them up between their pets — meat to Crookshanks, veg to Hedwig. Both animals looked at their meals with deep disgust.

“It’s no good turning your nose up at it,” Violet told her cat grimly, “that’s all we’ve got.”

She put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and lay back down on the bed, somehow even hungrier than she had been before.

“Supposing we’re alive in another four weeks,” said Harry, his head down at the other end of the bed near Violet’s feet, “what d’you suppose will happen if we don’t turn up at Hogwarts? Will they send someone to see why didn’t come back? Would they be able to make the Dursleys let us go?”

“They’ll never let us go,” Violet said bitterly. Harry was silent after that.

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomachs rumbling, minds spinning over the same unanswerable questions, Harry and Violet felt into an uneasy sleep.

Violet dreamed fitfully of the same visions that haunted her since early childhood — a man and woman screaming, a chaotic flurry of shapes and colors passing by her before she could process what they were meant to be. Tonight she dreamed of a door slamming behind her, a pair of hands that weren’t her own locking it frantically, only for someone on the other side to grab the handle and rattle it, pounding to get it.

“Stop it,” Violet muttered as the pounding beat through her sore head. “Get away from me . . .”

Something solid hit her hard on the leg. She opened her eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the window, and through the shape of Harry pressed against the glass, Violet could see a familiar, freckled face goggling back at them.

Ron Weasley was outside of their window.


	3. The Burrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

“ _ Ron _ !” breathed Harry, pushing the window up so they could talk through the bars as Violet scrambled to his side. “Ron, how did you — What the —?”

Violet mouth fell open as the full impact of what she was seeing hit here. Ron was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked  _ in midair _ . Grinning at Harry and Violet from the front feat were Fred and George, Ron’s elder twin brothers.

“All right, Violet?” asked George,

“What’s been going on?” said Ron, speaking to Harry. “Why haven’t you been answering my letters? I’ve asked you to stay about twelve times, and then Dad come home and said you’d got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles —”

“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”

“He works for the Ministry,” said Ron. “You  _ know _ we’re not supposed do spells outside school —”

“You should talk,” said Violet, staring at the floating car.

“Oh, this doesn’t count,” said Ron. “We’re only borrowing this. It’s Dad’s,  _ we _ didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with —”

“I told you, we didn’t — but it’ll take too long to explain now — look, can you tell them at Hogwarts that the Dursleys have locked us up and won’t let us come back, and obviously we can’t magic ourselves out, because the Ministry’ll think that’s the second spell we’ve done in three days, so —”

“Stop gibbering,” said Ron. “We’ve come to take you home with us.”

“But you can’t magic us out either —”

“We don’t need to,” said Ron, jerking his head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forgot who I’ve got with me.”

“Tie that around the bars,” said Fred, throwing the end of a rope to Violet.

“If the Dursleys wake up, we’re dead,” said Violet as she tied the rope tightly around a bar and Fred revved up the car.

“Don’t worry,” said Fred, “and stand back.”

Violet and Harry moved back into the shadows next to Hedwig, who seemed to have realized how important this was and kept still and silent. Violet scooped Crookshanks into her arms and held him close. The car revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Fred drove straight up in the air. The twins ran back to the window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the ground. Panting, Ron hoisted them up into the car. Violet listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Dursleys’ bedroom.

When the bars were safely in the back seat with Ron, Fred reversed as close as possible to the window.

“Get in,” Ron said.

“But all our Hogwarts stuff —” said Violet, “our wands —”

“— my broomstick —”

“Where is it?”

“Locked in the cupboard under the stairs, and we can’t get out of this room —”

“No problem,” said George from the front passenger seat. “Out of the way, you two.”

Fred and George climbed catlike through the window into the twins’ room. You had to hand it to them, thought Violet, as George took an ordinary hairpin from his pocket and started to pick the lock.

“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing this sort of Muggle trick,” said Fred, “but we feel they’re skills worth learning, even if they’re a bit slow.”

There was a small click and the door swung open.

“So — we’ll get your trunks — you grab anything you need from your room and hand it to Ron,” whispered George.

“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Violet whispered back as the Weasley twins disappeared on to the dark landing.

Harry and Violet dashed around their room, collecting their things and passing them out of the window to Ron. Crookshanks, disliking all the manhandling, leapt into the car without any help and landed squarely in Ron’s lap. Then they went to help Fred and George heave their trunks up the stairs. Violet heard Uncle Vernon cough.

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the trunks through the bed- room to the open window, Harry and Fred carrying his while Violet helped George carry hers. Fred climbed back into the car to pull with Ron, and Harry and George pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, each trunk slid through the window.

Uncle Vernon coughed again.

“A bit more,” panted Fred, who was pulling Violet’s trunk from inside the car. “One good push —”

Harry and George threw their shoulders against the trunk and it slid out of the window and into the back seat of the car.

“Okay, let’s go,” George whispered. He helped Violet through the window before following himself.

But as Harry climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden, loud screech from behind them, followed immediately by the thunder of Uncle Vernon’s voice.

“THAT RUDDY OWL!”

“I’ve forgotten Hedwig!”

Harry tore back across the room as the landing light clicked on — he snatched up Hedwig’s cage, dashed to the window, and passed it out to Ron. He was scrambling back onto the chest of drawers when Uncle Vernon hammered on the unlocked door and it crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Vernon stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dived at Harry, grabbing him by the ankle.

Ron, Violet, and George seized harry’s arms and pulled as hard as they could.

“Petunia!” roared Uncle Vernon. “They’re getting away! THEY’RE GETTING AWAY!”

“Put your foot down, Fred!” yelled Ron, his fist firmly clenched around a handful of Harry’s shirt. The car shot forward suddenly, ripping Harry out of Uncle Vernon’s grasp. They slammed the door shut behind him and that was it.

Violet couldn’t believe it — they were free. She rolled down the window, the night air whipping her hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops of Privet Drive. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley were all hanging, dumbstruck, out of the window.

“See you next summer!” Violet yelled.

The Weasleys roared with laughter and the Potter twins settled back into their seats, grinning from ear to eat.

“Let Hedwig out,” Harry told Ron. “She can fly behind us. She hasn’t had a chance to stretch her wings for ages.”

George handed the hairpin to Ron and, a moment later, Hedwig soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.

“So — what’s the story, Harry?” said Ron impatiently. “What’s been happening?”

Harry and Violet told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given them and the fiasco of the pudding. There was a long, shocked silence when they’d finished.

“Very fishy,” said Fred finally.

“Definitely dodgy,” agreed George. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who’s supposed to be plotting all this stuff?”

“I don’t think he could,” said Violet. “I told you, every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.”

She saw Fred and George look at each other.

“What, you think he was lying to us?” said Violet.

“Well,” said Fred, “put it this way — house-elves have got powerful magic of their own, but they can’t usually use it without their master’s permission. I reckon old Dobby was sent to stop you coming back to Hogwarts. Someone’s idea of a joke. Can you think of anyone at school with a grudge against the two of you?”

“Yes,” said Harry and Violet together, instantly.

“Draco Malfoy,” explained Harry. “He hates us.”

“Draco Malfoy?” said George, turning around.”Not Lucius Malfoy’s son?”

“Must be, it’s not a very common name, is it?” said Violet. “Why?”

“I’ve heard Dad talking about him,” said George. “He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who.”

“And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Fred, craning around to look at the twins, “Lucius Malfoy came back saying he’d never meant any of it. Load of dung — Dad reckons he was right in You-Know-Who’s inner circle.

Violet and Harry had heard these rumors about Malfoy’s family before, and weren’t surprised by them at all. Malfoy made Dudley look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy.

“I don’t know whether the Malfoys own a house-elf . . .” said Violet.

“Well, whoever owns him will be an old wizarding family, and they’ll be rich,” said Fred.

“Yeah, Mum’s always wishing we had a house-elf to do the ironing,” said George. “But all we’ve got is a lousy old ghoul in the attic and gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old manors and castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in our house . . .”

Harry and Violet were silent. Judging by the fact that Draco Malfoy usually had the best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold. They could just see Malfoy strutting around a large manor house. Sending the family servant to stop them from going back to Hogwarts sounded exactly like the sort of thing Malfoy would do. Had they been stupid to take Dobby seriously?

“I’m glad we came to get you, anyway,” said Ron. “I was getting really worried when you didn’t answer any of my letters. I thought it was Errol’s fault at first —”

“Who’s Errol?”

“Our owl. He’s ancient. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d collapsed on a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Hermes —”

“ _ Who _ ?”

“The own Mum and Dad bought Percy when he was made prefect,” said Fred from the front.

“But Percy wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Ron. “Said he needed him.”

“Percy’s been acting very oddly this summer,” said George, frowning. “And he  _ has _ been sending a lot of letters and spending a load of time shut up in his room . . . I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a prefect badge . . . You’re driving too far west, Fred,” he added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Fred twiddled the steering wheel.

“So, does your dad know you’ve got the car?” said Harry, looking as though he already knew the answer.

“Er, no,” said Ron, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without Mum noticing we flew it.”

“What does your dad to at the Ministry of magic, anyway?” asked Violet.

“He works in the most boring department,” said Ron. “The Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

The  _ what _ ?”

“It’s all to do with bewitching things that are Muggle-made, you know, in case they end up back in a Muggle shop or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve her friends tea in it. It was a nightmare — Dad was working overtime for weeks.”

“What happened?” Violed asked, fascinated.

“The teapot went berserk and squirted boiling water all over the place and one man ended up in hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. Dad was going frantic — it’s only him and an old warlock called Perkins in the office — and they had to do memory charms and all sorts of stuff to cover it up —”

“But your dad — this car —”

Fred laughed. “Yeah, Dad’s crazy about everything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle stuff. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and puts it back together again. If he raided  _ our _ house he’d have to put himself under arrest. It drives Mum mad.”

“That’s the main road,” said George, peering down through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten minutes . . . Just as well, it’s getting light . . .”

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the eat.

Fred brought the car lower, and Violet saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.

“We’re a little way outside the village,” said George. “Ottery St. Catchpole.”

Lowers and lower went the flying car. The edge of a brilliant red sun was now gleaming through the trees.

“Touchdown!” said Fred as, with a slight bump, they hit the ground. They had landed next to a tumbledown garage in a small yard, and Harry and Violet looked out for the first time at the Weasley’s house.

It looked as though it had once been a large stone pigpen, but extra rooms had been added here and there until it was several stories high and so crooked that it looked as though it were held up with magic (which, Violet reminded herself, it probably was). Four or five chimneys were perched on top of the red roof. A lopsided sign stuck in the ground near the entrance read, THE BURROW. Around the front door lay a jumble of rubber boots and a very rusty cauldron. Several fat brown chickens were pecking their way around the yard.

“It’s not much,” said Ron.

“It’s  _ wonderful, _ ” said the twins together happily, thinking of Privet Drive.

They got out of the car.

“Now, we’ll go upstairs really quietly,” said Fred, “and wait for Mum to call us for breakfast. Then, Ron, you come bounding downstairs going, ‘Mum, look who turned up in the night!’ and she’ll be all pleased to see Harry and Violet and no one need ever know we flew the car.

“Right,” said Ron. “Come on, I sleep at the — at the top —”

Ron had gone a nasty greenish color, his eyes fixed on the house. The others wheeled around.

Mrs. Weasley was marching across the yard, scattering chickens, and for a short, plump, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

“ _ Ah, _ ” said Fred.

“Oh, dear,” said George.

Mrs. Weasley came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a flowered apron with a wand sticking out of the pocket.

“ _ So, _ ” she said.

“ ’Morning, Mum,” said George, in what he clearly thought was a jaunty, winning voice.

“Have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Weasley in a deadly whisper.

“Sorry, Mum, but see, we had to —”

All three of Mrs. Weasley’s sons were taller than she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

“ _ Beds empty! No note! Car gone   _ —  _ could have crashed  _ —  _ out of my mind with worry  _ —  _ did you care?  _ —  _ never, as long as I’ve lived  _ —  _ you wait until your father gets home, we’ve never had trouble like this from Bill or Charlie or Percy  _ —”

“Perfect Percy,” muttered Fred.

“YOU COULD DO WITH TAKING A LEAF OUT OF PERCY’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Weasley, prodding a finger in Fred’s chest. You could have  _ died _ , you could have been  _ seen, _ you could have lost your father his  _ job  _ —”

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Weasley had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on the twins, who backed away.

“I’m very pleased to see you Harry, Violet, dear,” she said. “Come in and have some breakfast.”

She turned and walked back into the house and Harry and Violet, after glancing nervously at Ron, who nodded encouragingly, followed her.

The kitchen was small and rather cramped. There was a scrubbed wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Violet and Harry sat on their edges of their seats. They had never been in a wizard house before.

The clock on the wall opposite them had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like  _ Time to make tea, Time to feed the chickens, _ and  _ You’re late. _ Books were stacked three deep on the mantelpiece, books with titles like  _ Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking, _ and  _ One Minute Feasts  _ —  _ It’s Magic _ ! And unless Violet’s ears were deceiving her, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was “Witching House, with the popular singing sorceress, Celestina Warbeck.”

Mrs. Weasley was clattering around, cooking breakfast a little haphazardly, throwing dirty looks at her sons as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t know  _ what _ you were thinking of,” and “ _ never _ would have believed it.”

“I don’t blame  _ you _ , dears,” she assured Harry and Violet, tipping seven or eight sausages onto each of their plates. “Arthur and I have been worried about you, too. Just last night we were saying we’d come and get you ourselves if you hadn’t written back to Ron by Friday. But really” (she was now adding three fried eggs to their plates), “flying an illegal car halfway across the country — anyone could have seen you —”

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

“It was  _ cloudy _ , Mum!” said Fred.

“You better keep your mouth closed while you’re eating!” Mrs. Weasley snapped.

“They were starving them, Mum!” said George.

“And you!” said Mrs. Weasley, but it was with a slightly softened expression that she started cutting Violet’s bread and buttering it for her.

At that moment there was a diversion in the form of a small, red-headed figure in a long nightdress, who appeared in the kitchen, gave a small squeal, and ran out again.

“Ginny,” said Ron in an undertone to Harry. “My sister. She’s been talking about you all summer.”

“Yeah, she’ll be wanting your autograph, Harry,” Fred said with a grin, but he caught his mother’s eye and bent his face over his plate without another word. Nothing more was said until all five plates were clean, which took a surprisingly short time.

“ _ Blimey, _ I’m tired,” yawned Fred, setting down his knife and fork at last. “I think I’ll go to bed and —”

“You will not,” snapped Mrs. Weasley. “It’s your own fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again —”

“Oh, Mum —”

“And you two,” she said, glaring at Ron and George. “You can go up to bed, dears,” she added to Violet and Harry. “You didn’t ask them to fly that wretched car —”

But the twins, who felt wide-awake, said, “We’ll help Ron. We’ve never seen a de-gnoming —”

“That’s very sweet of you, dears, but it’s dull work,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, let’s see what Lockhart’s got to say on the subject —”

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece. George groaned.

“Mum, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”

Violet looked at the cover of Mrs. Weasley’s book. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words  _ Gilderoy Lockhart’s Guide to Household Pests _ . There was a big photo- graph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy blond hair and bright blue eyes. As always in the wizarding world, the photograph was moving; the wizard, who Violet supposed was Gilderoy Lockhart, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Weasley beamed down at him.

“Oh, he is marvelous,” she said. “He knows his household pests, all right, it’s a wonderful book . . .”

“Mum  _ fancies _ him,” said Fred, in a very audible whisper.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Fred,” said Mrs. Weasley, her cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know better than Lockhart, you can go and get on with it, and woe betide you if there’s a single gnome in that garden with I come out to inspect it.”

Yawning and grumbling, the Weasleys slouched outside with the Potters behind them. The garden was large, and in Violet’s eyes, exactly what a garden should be. Aunt Petunia wouldn’t have liked it — there were plenty of weeks, and the grass needed cutting — but there were gnarled trees all around the walls, plants Violet had never seen spilling from every flower bed, and a big green pond full of frogs.

“Muggles have garden gnomes, too, you know,” Harry told Ron as they crossed the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve seen those things they think are gnomes,” said Ron, bent double with his head in a peony bush, “like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods . . .”

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Ron straightened up. “ _ This _ is a gnome,” he said grimly.

“Gerroff me! Gerroff me!” squealed the gnome.

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and leathery looking, with a large, knobby, bald head exactly like a potato. Ron held it at arm’s length as it kicked at him with its horny little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down.

“This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the gnome above his head (“Gerroff me!”) and started to swing it in great circles like a lasso. Seeing the shocked looks on the twins faces, Ron added, “It doesn’t  _ hurt _ them — you’ve just got to make them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.”

He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a dull thud in the field over the hedge.

“Pitiful,” said Fred. “I bet I can get mine beyond that stump.”

Violet learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. The first one Harry caught, he decided just to drop it over the hedge, but the gnome, sensing weakness, sank it’s razor- sharp teeth into Harry’s finger and he had a hard job shaking it off — until —

“Wow, Harry — that must’ve been fifty feet . . .”

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

“See, they’re not too bright,” said George, seizing five or six gnomes at once. “The mo- ment they know the de-gnoming’s going on they storm up to have a look. You’d think they’d’ve learned by now just to stay put.

Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

“They’ll be back,” said Ron as they watched the gnomes disappear into the hedge on the other side of the field. “They love it here . . . Dad’s too soft with them; he thinks they’re funny . . .”

“But why do you have to get rid of them?” Violet asked, feeling rather sad for the little creatures.

“They tear up the garden,” said George. He pointed to several small, muddy mounds of loose earth that had been pushed up from beneath. “Mum says they go after the chickens, too, but I’ve never seen it.”

Just then, the front door slammed.

“He’s back!” said Fred. “Dad’s home!”

They hurried through the garden and back into the house.

Mr. Weasley was slumped in a kitchen chair with his glasses off and his eyes closed. He was a thin man, going bald, but the little hair he had was as red as any of his children’s. He was wearing long green robes, which were dusty and travel-worn.

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the teapot as they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And old Mundungus Fletcher tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned . . “

Mr. Weasley took a long gulp of tea and sighed.

“Find anything, Dad?” said Fred eagerly.

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting kettle,” yawned Mr. Weasley. “There was some pretty nasty stuff that wasn’t my department, though. Mortlake was taken away for questions about some extremely odd ferrets, but that the Committee on Experi- mental Charms, thank goodness . . .”

“Why would anyone bother making door keys shrink?” said George.

“Just Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Weasley. “Sell them a key that keeps shrinking to nothing so they can never find it when they need it . . . Of course, it’s very hard to convict anyone because no Muggle would admit their keys keep shrinking — they’ll insist they just keep losing it. Bless them, they’ll go to any lengths to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them in the face . . . But the things our lot have taken to enchanting, you wouldn’t believe —”

“LIKE CARS, FOR INSTANCE?”

Mrs. Weasley had appeared, holding a long poker like a sword. Mr. Weasley’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.

“C-cars, Molly, dear?”

“Yes, Arthur, cars,” said Mrs. Weasley, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while  _ really _ he was enchanting it to make it  _ fly _ .”

Mr. Weasley blinked.

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be quite within the law to do that, even if — er — he maybe would have done better to, um, tell his wife the truth . . . There’s a loophole in the law, you’ll find . . . As long as he wasn’t  _ intending _ to fly the car, the fact that the car  _ could _ fly wouldn’t —”

“Arthur Weasley, you make sure there was a loophole when you wrote that law!” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “Just so you could carry on tinkering with all that Muggle rubbish in your shed! And for your information, Harry and Violet arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!”

“Harry?” said Mr. Weasley blankly. “And Violet? Harry and Violet who?”

He looked around, saw the twins, and jumped.

“Good lord, is it the Potters? Very pleased to meet you both, Ron’s told us so much about —”

“ _ Your sons flew that car to Surrey and back last night _ !” shouted Mrs. Weasley. “What have you got to say about that, eh?”

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley eagerly. “Did it go all right? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Weasley’s eyes, “ that — that was very wrong, boys — very wrong indeed . . .”

“Let’s leave them to it,” Ron muttered to Harry as Mrs. Weasley swelled like a bullfrog. “Come on, I’ll show you my bedroom.”

Violet nervously watched them slip out of the kitchen, wondering if she was meant to follow along, when two pairs of arms looped around each of hers.

“Come and see  _ our _ bedroom,” said Fred, grinning as they fairly lifted her away from the table. 

“We’ve been working on something — could use an outside opinion —”

The twins led her out of the kitchen and down a narrow passageway to an uneven stair- case, which wound its way, zigzagging up through the house. On the fourth landing, they made a show of leading her dramatically through a battered, slightly crooked doorway that bore several signs reading things like ‘Prank In Progress’ and ‘Ginny Get Out It’s For Your Own Good.’

Violet stepped into the wildest, most cluttered room she had ever seen: two narrow beds were stacked one on top of the other against the left wall, and the entire rest of the room was packed with shelves, boxes, open trunks overflowing with school supplies — a long table set against the right wall clearly served as a desk of sort for Fred and George, and was piled high not only with textbooks and parchments, but strange pouches and vials of liquids in all different colors. A small contraption beneath the window was glowing and emitting sparks at regular intervals. The walls were covered in diagrams and rude drawings and upside down cut- outs from the  _ Daily Prophet _ . Even hanging from the ceiling were strange little devices, twitching and spinning seemingly on their own.

Fred and George both scampered up onto the topmost bed with ease and sat, grinning, watching for Violet’s reaction.

“Have a seat,” said Fred.

“If you can find one,” added George.

And then, together, they said, “Make yourself at home!”

Violet, grinning widely, did just that.


	4. Floo Travel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Life at the Burrow was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive. The Dursleys liked everything neat and orderely; the Weasleys’ house burst with the strange and unexpected. Violet got a shock the first time she looked in the mirror over the kitchen mantelpiece and it shouted, “ _ Brush your hair, scruffy! _ ” The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever it felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Fred and George’s bedroom were considered perfectly normal (Violet had even been present for some of them, much to her delight). What the Potter twins found most unusual about life at Ron’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like them.

Mrs. Weasley fussed over the state of their clothes and tried to force them to eat fourth helpings at every meal. She also sat Violet down one night and went about combing the tangles and knots out of the rat’s nest that was her hair, and braided it back out of her face the way Violet liked. Unlike when Aunt Petunia did it, Violet did not go to bed in tears. Mr. Weasley liked Harry and Violet to sit on either side of him at the dinner table so that he could bombard them with questions about life with Muggles, asking them to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked.

“ _ Fascinating _ !” he would say as Violet talked him through using a telephone. “ _ Ingenious, _ really, how many ways Muggles have found of getting along without magic.”

Violet and Harry heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after they had first arrived at the Burrow. While Harry was staying with Ron at the very top of the house, Violet had been sleeping on the third floor in Ginny’s bedroom — she and the Weasley twins had argued that there was plenty of room for her to stay with them, but Mrs. Weasley didn’t think it would be proper.

Sharing a room with Ginny wasn’t terribly fun for Violet. The younger girl barely spoke to her, preferring instead to sit across from her on the other side of the room and stare with wide, mistified brown eyes. When she did talk, it was to ask odd questions about Harry. There was a small patch of wall completely devoted to Harry, much to Violet’s alarm. Ginny had quickly covered it with a towel, but not before Violet had seen the many clippings from the  _ Daily Prophet _ , a handful of simple drawings of him with hearts all around them, and what looked to be a note to Ron that her brother had passed to him in class. Violet, quickly annoyed with all the badgering, told Ginny that Harry snored and had very stinky feet.

She and Violet were sitting at the breakfast table when Harry and Ron came down. The moment she saw Harry, Ginny accidentally knocked her porridge bowl to the floor with a loud clatter. Ginny seemed very prone to knocking things over whenever Harry entered a room. She dived under the table to retrieve the bowl and emerged with her face glowing like the setting sun. Violet rolled her eyes as Harry sat down beside her, clearly pretending not to have noticed.

“Letters from school,” said Mr. Weasley, passing Harry and Violet identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink. “Dumbledore already knows you’re here, you two — doesn’t miss a trick, that man. You two’ve got them, too,” he added, as Fred and George ambled in, still in their pajamas.

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters. Violet’s told her to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from King’s Cross station on September first. There was also a list of the new books she’d need for the coming year.

 

SECOND-YEAR STUDENTS WILL REQUIRE

_ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2  _ By Miranda Goshawk

_ Break with a Banshee _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Gadding with Ghouls _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Holidays with Hags _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Travels with Trolls _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Voyages with Vampires _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Wandering with Werewolves _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

_ Year with the Yeti _ by Gilderoy Lockhart

 

Fred, who had finished his own list, peered over at Harry’s.

“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books too!” he said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan — bet it’s a witch.”

At this point, Fred caught his mother’s eye and quickly busied himself with the marmalade.

“That lot won’t come cheap,” said George, with a quick look at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really expensive . . .”

“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Weasley, but she looked worried. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny’s things secondhand.”

“Oh, are you starting Hogwarts this year?” Harry asked Ginny.

She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair, and put her elbow in the butter dish. Fortunately no one saw this except Harry, because Violet was too busy rolling her eyes, and all the Weasleys were distracted by the sight of Ron’s elder brother Percy walking in. He was already dressed, his Hogwarts prefect badge pinned to his sweater vest.

“Morning, all,” said Percy briskly. “Lovely day.”

He sat down in the only remaining chair, but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, gray feather duster — at least, that was what Violet thought it as, until she saw that it was breathing.

“Errol!” said Ron, taking the limp owl from Percy and extracting a letter from under its wing. “ _ Finally _ — he’s got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”

He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again so Ron laid him on the draining board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then he ripped opened Hermione’s letter.

“ ‘ _ Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there, _

“ ‘ _ I hope everything went all right and that Harry is okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get him out, Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, too. I’ve been worried and if Harry is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl, because I think another delivery might finish your one off. _

“ ‘ _ I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’ _ — How  _ can _ she be?” said Ron in horror. “We’re on vacation! — ‘ _ and we’re doing to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley? _

“ ‘ _ Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione. _ ’ “

Harry was beaming, but Violet sat there with a strange sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Hermione hadn’t asked after her at all. And, in a moment of horror, Violet realized that she had never gotten around to sending word to Tracey or Cassius about what had happened to her over the summer. Judging from the state of the Weasley’s owl, she wouldn’t get the chance, now.

“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?”

Harry, Ron, Fred, and George — and Violet, who was determined not to spend another day being stared at by Ginny — were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasley’s owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high. They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron’s old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies.

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Violet had only seen Percy at mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.

“Wish I knew what he was up to,” said Fred, frowning. “He’s not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all.”

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, seeing Violet’s puzzled look. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I don’t think I could stand the shame.”

Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry and Violet had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt working for the wizard bank, Gringotts.

“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,” said George after a while. “Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything . . .”

“Can we help?” Violet asked, which prompted all three Weasleys to look at her. “We’ve got — Harry and me, I mean, we’ve got some money our — our parents left us —”

The expressions on Ron, Fred, and George’s faced had become oddly closed, and Violet could feel herself blushing. She had overstepped.

“That’s very kind of you,” George said after a moment, “but we’ll manage.”

Violet sat quietly on the sidelines after that, watching the boys play together, feeling too awkward to join in again. She shouldn’t have mentioned the money — but she was only trying to help. It wasn’t  _ her _ fault that her and Harry’s mother and father had left behind a small fortune for them, all of it in wizard gold that couldn’t even be used in Muggle shops.

She and Harry had never mentioned their Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; they didn’t think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.

 

Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.

“We’re running low, Arthur,” she sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more today . . . Ah well, guests first! After you, Violet dear!”

And she offered her the flowerpot.

Violet stared at them all watching her.

“W-what am I supposed to do?” she stammered.

“They’ve never travelled by Floo powder,” said Ron suddenly. “Sorry, Violet, I forgot.”

“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?”

“We went on the Underground —”

“Really?” said Mr Weasley eagerly. “Were there  _ escapators? _ How exactly —”

“Now  _ now _ , Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before —”

“They’ll be all right, Mum,” said Fred. “Watch us first.”

He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up the fire, and threw the powder into the flames.

With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished.

“You must speak clearly, dears,” Mrs. Weasley told them as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate . . .”

“The right what?” said Violet nervously as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too.

“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly —”

“They’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley, helping himself to some Floo powder, too.

“But, dear, if they get lost, how would we ever explain to their aunt and uncle?”

“They won’t mind,” Harry reassured her. “Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if we got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that —”

“Well . . . alright . . . you go after Arthur, Violet, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going —”

“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Ron advised.

“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Weasley. “The soot —”

“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace —”

“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George.”

Trying hard to bear all of this in mind, Violet took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. She took a deep breath, threw the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; she sucked in a short, sharp breath through her teeth.

“Diagon Alley!” she shouted, a bit too loudly.

It felt as though she were being sucked down a giant drain. She seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in her ears was deafening — she squeezed her eyes shut tight against the whirl of green flames — something knocked her elbow and she tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now it felt as though cold hands were slapping her face — squinting through the flames and soot she saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — her bacon sandwiches were churking inside her — she caught a flash of red — was it red hair?

Violet lurched forward, falling face forward, and was caught immediately by two sets of hands under her armpits.

“Hooray!” cried Fred, jostling her as he jumped up and down.

“See?” said George, grinning at her from above her right shoulder, “that wasn’t so bad!”

Dizzy and feeling rather sick, Violet didn’t dare open her mouth to disagree.

They were standing in the cramped, dingy main room of the Leaky Cauldron, the ancient bartender nodding politely to them from behind the bar. There were even fewer patrons present today than the first time Violet had been here. Thankfully, none of them rushed up to shake her hand this time.

“Alright, Violet?” asked Mr. Weasley, smiling kindly at her. He had a large streak of soot across his chin that his sons had likely not told him about.

“Fine, sir, thank you,” said Violet.

There was a sudden roaring from the fireplace, followed by a strong gust of hot air, and a moment later the small, red-headed form of Ginny Weasley popped out and ran straight into her father. Ron followed, cool and collected if a bit wobbly on his feet. Right after him came Percy, who wore an expression of forced composure as he strode out of the fire and then, moments behind him, Mrs. Weasley, her hair fluttering wildly about her head as she stepped calmly out of the fireplace. The fire, once roaring high with flames, now settled to a gentle flicker. Violet felt her stomach drop.

“Where’s Harry?” she asked, looking around the pub as though she may have missed him somehow.

Mrs. Weasley was busy brushing soot from the front of her robes, and said, “He went right before Ginny, dear, he might be feeling a bit sick —”

“He’s not here!” said Ron suddenly, whirling around in alarm. “Mum, he didn’t come out, we’ve all been standing here the whole time!”

They all looked around together — a pub full to bursting with Weasleys, and only one small, dark-haired figure standing amongst them. There was no sign of Harry.

“Oh, good heavens,” breathed Mrs. Weasley, her face white as a sheet. “Arthur — he coughed, Arthur, going into the fire — you don’t think —”

Mr. Weasley had gone very pale as well, his face a grim mask of concentration.

“We’ll check the other shops,” he said firmly. “I know a few other places connected to the Floo Network, he can’t have missed too many stops.”

Violet wanted to believe that, but the worried looks Mr. and Mrs. Weasley gave each other didn’t put her at ease at all. She wrapped her arms tight around herself, not knowing what else to do, and followed the Weasley family out into Diagon Alley in search of her twin.

They darted in and out of shops, asking if anyone had come through the Floo recently, only to be met with bewildered, shaking heads and dismissive waves. They decided it would be easier to split up — Mrs. Weasley took Ginny by the hand and marched off with her in one direction while Mr. Weasley and Ron headed in another, instructing Violet, Fred, and George to hurry on ahead and see if he might have come out further down the street.

“Come on, we’ll find him,” said Fred gently when Violet began to cry.

“Or he’ll find us,” added George. “He’s clever, Harry, isn’t he?”

“He’s  _ not _ ,” said Violet, tears freely rolling down her cheeks now. “He’s really stupid and I can’t believe he’s done this.”

The twins got a good laugh out of that, at least.

It was another frantic, gut-wrenching half an hour before they all reconvened outside of the white marble steps of the wizard bank Gringotts, and ran into a familiar face.

“Hermione!” called Violet, at once recognizing the mass of thick brown curls heading up the steps. Hermione Granger looked around at the sound of her name and smiled broadly as Violet ran up to meet her.

“Hello, Violet!” said Hermione brightly. “Oh, I’m so glad you made it — are you heading into Gringotts as well?”

“Later,” Violet said. She was suddenly aware of her own tear-stained face and flushed. “I have to find Harry first — he’s gone missing.”

“Again?” said Hermione, sounding surprised. “But I’ve only just seen him.”

She pointed over Violet’s shoulder, down along the narrow street, and Violet caught sight of another achingly familiar figure — standing head and shoulders above the rest, bushy beard and hair and all, was Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper — and, dwarfed beside him, was Harry.

Violet let out such a deep breath of relief that she went light-headed.

“Harry,” she said, and then shouted, “ _ Harry _ !”

Harry stood up on his tiptoes to see her as she sprinted toward him, shoving witches and wizards out of the way with the Weasleys twins right behind her. Violet collided with her brother with such force he nearly lost his footing. 

“Stop doing this!” Violet cried, nearly throttling him with her arms wrapped tight around his neck. “Stop getting yourself into trouble, you  _ promised _ me!”

“I didn’t  _ mean _ to,” Harry grunted, though he was hugging her back just as fiercely. When Violet finally let go of him he was all red in the face, covered in soot with his hair sticking up worse than usual and —

“Your glasses . . .”

“It’s fine, Vi,” Harry said, clearly embarrassed, but that didn’t stop her from plucking the ruined metal frames from his face. Violet frowned at them — the bridge was nearly snapped in two and there was a crack in one of the lenses, except —

“Whoa . . .”

Violet had blinked, once. Where she once held a pair of dusty, mangled glasses, the set she held now were shiny and pristine. There were no bends or cracks, no streaks or bits of soot across the lenses. They were repaired, and Harry took them from her dumbstruck hands with his mouth hanging open.

“Now I’ve  _ told _ yeh,” burst Hagrid’s voice from above, making them both jump, “yeh’ve got ter get that under control!”

“But I didn’t do anything,” said Violet, looking up into Hagrid’s great, hairy face. She had to squint slightly as the sun was behind him. 

“Codswallop,” he huffed. But after a moment his stern expression became soft, and Violet nearly crumpled under the force of a giant hand giving her several hard pats on the top of the head. “Good ter see yeh, Violet. I missed yeh, the both of yeh! Harry here was jus’ tellin’ me about this business with the house-elf an’ yer letters —”

“ _ Harry _ !”

There was a great thundering of footsteps as Harry and Violet looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley.

“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We  _ hoped _ you’d only gone one grate too far . . .” He mopped his glistening bald patch. “Molly’s frantic — she’s coming now —”

“Where did you come out?” Ron asked.

“Knockturn Alley,” said Hagrid grimly.

“ _ Excellent _ !” said Fred and George together.

“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.

“I should ruddy well think not,” growled Hagrid.

Mrs. Weasley now came galloping into view, her handbag swinging wildly in one hand, Ginny just clinging onto the other.

“Oh, Harry — oh, my dear — you could have been anywhere —”

Gasping for breath she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the fine layer of soot that coated Harry’s clothes. 

“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his hand wrung by Mr. Weasley (“Knockturn Alley! If you hadn’t found him, Hagrid!”) “See yer at Hogwarts!” And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.

“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry asked as they all climbed the Gringotts step together — Hermione had waited at the bottom for them all, and joined them. “Malfoy and his father.”

“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” said Mr. Weasley sharply behind them.

“No, he was selling —”

“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim satisfaction. “Oh, I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something . . .”

“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley sharply as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew —”

“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” said Mr. Weasley indignantly, but he was distracted almost at once by the sight of Hermione’s parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione to introduce them.

Violet was distracted as well, by the sight of a familiar chubby girl with many thick braids in her hair, each of them fastened at the end by a brightly colored clip. She was standing next to a tall, smartly dressed Black man who could only be her father.

“Tracey!” Violet blurted, staring in shock. Tracey Davis, her best friend in the world apart from Harry, whipped around so quickly she was hit in the face by her own hair, her face splitting into a great, brace-fitted grin as their eyes met.

“ _ Violet!” _ she shouted in delight. Ignoring the disapproving glares of the goblins behind the counter, the two girls raced toward one another and met in a fit of tight hugs and giggles.

“I can’t believe you’re here!” Tracey exclaimed, jumping up and down on the marble floor. “I thought I’d never see you again, I was so worried — you never wrote back, and I thought you hated me — but you  _ don’t _ hate me, do you, please say you don’t hate me, Violet?”

“I don’t, I’m so sorry!” Violet cried, and immediately launched into a muddled, condensed explanation of her miserable summer, Dobby the house-elf, the pudding incident, the bars on the window. She was speaking very fast and knew she must not be making much sense, but Tracey listened in wonder as she spoke.

“And I thought  _ my _ summer was wild,” Tracey said at the end of it. “One of my aunties has triplets and I’ve been Chief Nanny ever since getting home . . . Oh! Violet! You haven’t met my Papa yet!”

Mr. Davis had a kind, crooked smile, and politely shook Violet’s hand even though he had obviously been interrupted from his conversation with the Grangers.

“But you’re  _ Muggles! _ ” said Mr. Weasley delightedly. “We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!” He pointed excitedly at the ten pound note in Mr. Granger’s hand.

“Have you got a vault?” asked Tracey, eyes wide as a goblin stepped from behind the counter and instructed them to follow him. “Can I see it?”

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along mina- ture train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Violet enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasley’s vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than she had after that awkward conversation with the twins, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Violet felt even worse when they reached her and Harry’s vault. The pair of them shared terribly guilty glances as they tried to block the contents from view, hastily shoving handfuls of coins into their small leather bags. Violet made eye contact with no one, but could feel Tracey’s eyes on her all the way back to the surface.

Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan. Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers and Mr. Davis off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink. And of course Harry had paired off with Ron and Hermione to wander the streets together. That left Tracey and Violet, buzzing with excitement and a whole summer’s worth of news to share, sent off to their own devices.

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your school books,” said Mrs. Weasley, setting off with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she shouted at her twin sons’ retreating backs.

Violet and Tracey strolled off along the winding, cobbled street, chattering and comparing summer activities. Tracey was horrified to hear about Violet and Harry’s treatment at the hands of the Dursleys, and altogether confused about their visit from Dobby the house-elf and his grim, cryptic warnings of terrible danger to come should they return to Hogwarts.

“I’ve never even  _ heard _ of house-elves,” she said with a frown. “I don’t think I like the sound of it, keeping another creature in your house to do what you say, then making them hurt themselves if they mess it up . . . but you’re right about Malfoy probably owning one. He  _ would _ , I bet.”

They wandered up the alley together, examining all the fascinating shop windows. Tracey gazed longingly at a full set of animated animal figurines, including a tiny crystal unicorn, and the pair of them took ages comparing pretty, speciality quills made of things like Phoenix tail feather and the bright pink feather of something called a Fwooper. In Gambol and japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains Violet found herself a small, water-damaged book called  _ Dreadful Denizens of the Deep _ , which contained many detailed drawings of strange, frightening creatures that supposedly dwelled in the waters of the world.

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows:

 

GILDEROY LOCKHART

will be signing copies of his autobiography

_ MAGICAL ME _

today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M

 

“Isn’t he the man who wrote all our school books?” Tracey asked as they approached.

The crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Weasley’s age. A har- assed looking wizard stood at the door, saying, “”Calmly, pleased, ladies. . . Don’t push, there. . . mind the books, now . . .”

One of the women, short and thin with a rather strong chin, was standing next to a young man with short, curly blond hair, wearing an extremely bored expression and trying sneakily to move away from her.

“Cassius!” Tracey yelled, sticking her hand up into the air and waving frantically. “Cass, look over here!”

The boy’s head perked up, and a moment later he was grumbling and fussing and trying to squirm away from Violet and Tracey, who were both hugging him around the middle.

“You’ve gotten taller!” Violet said, having to look up now to see his face properly. He was blushing fiercely as he stiffly patted her on the arm.

“Yeah, thanks for noticing, Violet. You, er — look the same, really.”

“Are these your little friends, Cassie?” said the short woman standing beside him, who, judging by the accent, Violet realized must be his mother. Cassius’ face went beet red.

“They’re not  _ that _ little,” he muttered. “Mother, this is Tracey D- erm, Davis? And Violet. Potter. Violet Potter.”

Mrs. Warrington smiled politely and shook both their hands, giving her son odd looks out of the corner of her eye as she did so.

“Cassie has told me so much about you both,” she said warmly. “And what a pleasure it is to meet you, Miss Potter, after all the stories I’ve heard.”

Violet smiled nervously, not quite sure how she felt about people hearing stories about her that she hadn’t yet heard herself. She tried to catch Cassius’ eye, but he was now busy staring at the ceiling while trying to shrink down into the collar of his shirt.

“Have you got your books yet?” Tracey asked him.

“Nope,” said Cassius, still not looking at them. “Can’t even get in the bloody shop.”

“Language, lad,” said Mrs. Warrington sharply, and Violet thought Cassius might just die then and there from all the blood rushing to his head.

“I see my dad in there with Ron’s parents,” Tracey said, craning to look over the heads of all the middle-aged women crowding outside. “You could come stand with us if you like and cheat the line?”

“Nope!” Cassius said. “We’re fine here, thanks!”

A bead of sweat was trickling down his forehead. Violet and Tracey giggled as they left him to it, squeezing inside the bookshop under the arms of fawning women. The long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They both grabbed a copy of  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 _ and sneaked up the line to where the Weasleys were standing with Mr. Davis and the Grangers.

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute . . .”

Gilderoy Lockhart came slowly into view, seating at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Gilderoy was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair.

A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

“Out of the way there,” he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the  _ Daily Prophet  _ —”

“Big deal,” said Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.

Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up. He saw Ron — and then he saw Harry and Violet. He stared. Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It  _ can’t _ be the Potter twins!”

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Lockhart dived forward, seized Harry and Violet’s arms, and pulled them to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Violet’s face burned as Lockhart shook their hands for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.

“Nice big smiles, children,” said Lockhart, through his own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”

When he finally let go of their hands, Violet could hardly feel her fingers. They tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys, but Lockhart threw his arms around each of their shoulders and clamped them tightly to his sides like a pair of living, mortified bookends.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waiting for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this this! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!

“When young Harry and Violet here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, they only wanted to buy my autobiography — which I shall be happy to present to them each now, free of charge —” The crowd applauded again. “They had  _ no idea _ ,” Lockhart continued, giving the twins a little shake that made Harry’s glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that they would shortly be getting much, much more than my book,  _ Magical Me _ . They and their schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

The crowd cheered and clapped and the twins found themselves being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, they managed to make their way out of the limelight to the edge of the room. Harry tipped his books into Ginny’s new cauldron, muttering about buying his own.

“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice Violet and Harry had no trouble recognizing. Draco Malfoy had sauntered over to them through the crowd, wearing his usual sneer.

“ _ Famous _ Potters,” said Malfoy. “Can’t even go into a  _ bookshop _ without making the front page.”

“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that,” said Ginny. It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry. She was glaring at Malfoy.

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a  _ girlfriend _ !” drawled Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron and Hermione fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Lockhart’s books.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Ron, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his show. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry and Violet here, eh?”

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” retorted Malfoy. “I supposed your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”

“Go away, Malfoy,” Violet snapped, but Ron had already dropped his books into the cauldron, too, and started toward Malfoy. Harry and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.

“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”

“Well, well, well — Arthur Weasley.”

Appearing behind Draco was a man Violet immediately knew to be his father. He had the same pointed face and white-blond hair and, standing with his hand on his son’s shoulder, the exact same sneer.

“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Malfoy. “All those raids . . . I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old, very battered copy of  _ A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration _ .

“Obviously not,” said Mr. Malfoy. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny.

“We have a very differently idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” he said.

“Clearly,” said Mr. Malfoy, his pale eyes straying to the Grangers and Mr. Davis, who were watching apprehensively. “The company you keep, Weasley . . . and I thought your family could sink no lower —”

There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went flying; Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the assistant, and then, louder than all —

“Break it up, there, gents, break it up —”

Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip, but had paid Mr. Malfoy back for it judging by the state of his bruised, squinting eye. He was still holding Ginny’s old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your father can give you —” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s grip he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.

“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid, almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that — no Malfoy’s worth listenin’ ter — bad blood, that’s what it is — come on now — let’s get outta here.”

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them from leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid’s waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Mr. Davis tight-lipped and the Grangers shaking with friend, and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury.

“A  _ fine _ example to set for your children . . .  _ brawling _ in public . . .  _ what _ Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought —”

“He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the  _ Daily Prophet _ if he’d be able to work the fight into his report — said it was all publicity —”

But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where the Potters, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be travelling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good-bye to the Grangers and Mr. Davis, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Weasley started to ask them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face.

Violet watched Harry take off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket before helping himself to Floo powder. She didn’t relax until she heard him say, very clearly this time, “The Burrow!”


	5. The Whomping Willow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The end of the summer vacation came far too quickly for Harry and Violet’s liking. They were looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but this month at the Burrow had been the happiest of their lives. It was difficult not to be jealous of Ron when they thought of the Dursleys and the sort of welcome the two of them could expect the next time they turned up on Privet Drive.

On their last evening, Mrs. Weasley conjured up a sumptuous dinner that included all of the twins’ favourite things, ending with a mouthwatering treacle pudding. Fred and George rounded off the evening with a display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot chocolate and bed. Once again, Mrs. Weasley took Violet aside and did her the favor of brushing out and braiding her hair before giving her a quick peck on the crown of the head and sending her off to Ginny’s room. Violet, who had never been kissed by anyone before, fell asleep smiling.

It took a long while to get started next morning. They were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to have a great deal to do. Mrs. Weasley dashed about in a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with bits of toast in their hands; and Mr. Weasley nearly broke his neck, tripping over a stray chicken as he crossed the yard carrying Ginny’s trunk to the car.

Violet couldn’t see how nine people, seven large trunks, two owls, a fat cat, and a rat were going to fit into one small Ford Anglia. She had reckoned, of course, without the special features that Mr. Weasley had added.

“Not a word to Molly,” he whispered to her and Harry as he opened the trunk and showed them how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fit easily.

When at last they were all in the car, Mrs. Weasley glanced into the back seat, where Harry, Ron, Fred, George, and Percy were all sitting comfortably side by side, and said, “Muggles  _ do _ know more than we give them credit for, don’t they?” She ushered Violet and Ginny into the front seat with herself, which had been stretched so that it resembled a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside, would you?”

Mr. Weasley started up the engine and they trundled out of the yard, Violet turning back for a last look at the house. She had barely time to wonder when she’d see it again when they were back — George had forgotten his box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Fred could run in for his broomstick. They had almost reached the highway when Ginny shrieked that she’d left her diary. By the time she had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high.

Mr. Weasley glanced at his watch and then at his wife.

“Molly, dear —”

“ _ No _ , Arthur —”

“No one would see — this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in the air — then we fly above the clouds. We’d be there in ten minutes and no one would be any the wiser —”

“I said  _ no _ , Arthur, not in broad daylight —”

They reached King’s Cross at a quarter to eleven. Mrs. Weasley dashed across the road to get trolleys for their trunks and they all hurried into the station.

Harry and Violet had taken the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

“Percy first,” said Mrs. Weasley, looking nervously at the clock overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.

Percy strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. Weasley went next; Fred and George followed.

“I’ll take Ginny and you three come right after us,” Mrs. Weasley told Harry, Ron, and Violet, grabbing Ginny’ hand and setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone.

“Violet, you first. Harry, let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Ron said to the twins.

Violet made sure that Crookshanks’ carrier was safely wedged on top of her trunk and wheeled her trolley around to face the barrier. She felt perfectly confident. This wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder, and she’d already had plenty of practice walking through walls the previous year. Violet bent low over the handle of her trolley and walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it she broke into a run and —

CRASH.

Her trolley hit the barrier and bounced backward; Violet was knocked off her feet, and Crookshanks’ carrier went crashing to the shiny floor, the poor cat yowling indignantly; people all around her stared and a guard yelled, “What in blazes d’you think you’re doing?”

“Lost control of the trolley,” Violet gasped, clutching her ribs as Harry ran up to help her to her feet. Ron ran to pick up Crookshanks, who hissed and spit as soon as he got near him.

“We can’t get through!” Violet hissed to Harry

“But — but we have to —”

Ron looked around wildly. A dozen curious people were still watching them.

“We’re going to miss the train,” Ron whispered. “I don’t understand why the gateway’s sealed itself —”

Violet and Harry looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of their stomachs. Ten seconds . . . nine seconds . . .

Harry wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid.

Three seconds . . . two seconds . . . one second . . .

“It’s gone,” said Violet still staring up the clock. Ron looked stunned.

“The train’s left. What if Mum and Dad can’t get back through to us? Have you got any Muggle money?”

Harry gave a hollow laugh. “The Dursleys haven’t given us pocket money for about six years.”

Ron pressed his ear to the cold barrier.

“Can’t hear a thing,” he said tensely. “What’re we going to do? I don’t know how long it’ll take Mum and Dad to get back to us.”

They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of Crookshanks’ continual yowling.

“I think we’d better go and wait by the car,” said Violet. “We’re attracting too much atten —”

“Violet!” said Ron, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”

“What about it?”

“We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”

“Oh, Ron,  _ no _ —”

“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school, haven’t we? And even underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or something of the Restriction Thingy —”

“But your mum and dad . . .” said Harry, pushing against the barrier again as if in the vain hope that it would give way. “How will they get home?”

“They don’t need the car!” said Ron impatiently. “They know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and reappear at home! They only bother with Floo powder and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not allowed to Apprate yet . . .”

Harry’s mouth was curling into an excited smile, but but Violet’s stomach was still twisting itself into anxious knots.

“I don’t like this,” she said, but the boys weren’t paying attention to her anymore.

“Can you fly it?” Harry asked as they wheeled their trolleys around to face the exit.

“No problem” said Ron, grinning as well. “C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we’ll be able to follow the Hogwarts Express —”

And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side of the road where the old Ford Anglia was parked.

Ron unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from his wand. They heaved their luggage back in, put Hedwig and Crookshanks into the back, which is where Violet also chose to sat while the boys took the front. She let Crookshanks out of his cramped cage and held him in her lap — she needed the comfort as much as he did.

“Check that no one’s watching,” said Ron, starting the ignition with another tap of his wand. Harry stuck his head out of the window and Violet turned round in her seat: Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty.

“Okay,” the said.

Ron pressed a shiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them vanished — and so did they. Violet could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel the cat on her knees, but all for all she could see, she had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

“Let’s go,” said Ron’s voice from right in front of her.

And the ground and the dirty building on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of London lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Violet, Harry, and Ron reappeared.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. “It’s faulty.”

Both of the boys pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again.

“Hold on!” Ron yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

“Now what?” said Violet, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides.

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go in,” said Ron.

“Dip back down again — quickly —”

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

“I can see it!” Harry yelled. “Right ahead — there!”

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.

“Due north,” said Ron, checking the compass on the dashboard. “Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every half an hour or so — hold on.”

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the seat of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said Ron.

They all looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn’t stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a fabulous dream. This, thought Violet, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a fat pack of toffees in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Fred’s and George’s jealous faces when they smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of the Hogwarts castle.

But thinking of Hogwarts made Violet’s guts do more of their funny twisting. She was struck with an idea.

“Harry,” she said, climbing to rest her arms on the back of the front seats, “can I let Hedwig out? I think we should try to tell the school we’re coming, even though we’re not on the train — otherwise they might not let us in.”

“Write to Dumbledore,” Harry suggested over the roar of the engine.

“And tell him that we  _ tried _ to get through the barrier,” added Ron. “Here, I think we’ve got some scratch paper in here —”

A few minutes later, Hedwig soared happily out the car window with a small, rolled-up note clenched in her beak. Violet sat back in her seat and went back to staring out the window.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. London was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

There was a bit of a kerfuffle during the afternoon when Ron’s pet rat, Scabbers, decided to crawl up out of Ron’s pocket and take in the view from the perch of Ron’s shoulder. Crookshanks, almost immediately, pounced.

“Get him off!” Ron yelped, as the cat’s sharp claws sank into the back of his neck. Scabbers leapt desperately across the seat at Harry, who caught him the way one would catch a hot potato, and Violet only just managed to grab Crookshanks round the middle before he could maul her brother as well.

“I’ve told you,  _ no _ !” she scolded, wrapping both arms round the struggling cat and holding him against her chest. “Crookshanks, stop it! You can’t eat him!”

“That thing’s a monster!” snarled Ron, rubbing at the fresh scratches on his back. Violet swelled indignantly.

“He’s only a cat,” she snapped, trying to pet Crookshanks enough to make him stop growling. “It’s not like he can help it, Ron.”

The two of them glared silently at each other in the rearview mirror while Harry tried to make peace, holding Scabbers well out of Crookshanks’ sight until everyone had calmed down. Violet ran her hands through her cat’s thick, orange fur, muttering kind things to him.

Several uneventful hours later, however, the mood had not improved. The toffees had made them extremely thirsty and they had nothing to drink. The three of them had all pulled off their sweaters, but Violet’s blouse was sticking to the back of her seat and she’d had to move Crookshanks off of her lap because he was making her far too hot. She had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch, and where her friends were surely wondering what had happened to her.  _ Why _ hadn’t they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters?

“Can’t be much farther, can it?” croaked Ron, hours later still, as the sun started to sink into the floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink. “Ready for another check on the train?”

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snow-capped mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds.

Ron put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Harry and Violet exchanged nervous glanced.

“It’s probably just tired,” said Ron. “It’s never been this far before . . .”

The three of them pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as they sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. Violet pulled her sweater back on — the same one Mrs. Weasley had knitted her for Christmas the year before — trying to ignore the way the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest.

“Not far,” said Ron, more to the car than to the twins, “not far now,” and he patted the dashboard nervously.

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.

“ _ There _ !” Harry shouted, making Ron and Violet jump. “Straight ahead!”

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.

“Come on,” Ron said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake, “nearly there, come on —”

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. Violet struggled to cram Crookshanks back into his carrier, and found herself gripping the door beside her very hard as they flew toward the lake.

The car gave a nasty wobble. Glancing out of her window, Violet saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Ron’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.

“Come  _ on _ ,” Ron muttered.

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead — Ron put his foot down.

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.

“Uh-oh,” said Ron, into the silence.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall.

“ _ Noooooo _ !” Ron yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

Ron let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his pocket.

“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, Violet screaming at the top of her lungs, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them —

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Harry bellowed, lunging for the steering wheel, but too late —

CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Crookshanks was mewling loudly in terror; Violet couldn’t half breathe, having had the wind knocked out of her by the rough landing; directly in front of her, Ron let out a low, despairing groan.

“Are you okay?” Harry said urgently.

“My wand,” said Ron, in a shaky voice. “Look at my wand —”

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters.

Violet opened her mouth to say she was sure they’d be able to mend it up at the school, but she never even got started. At that very moment, something hit the opposite side of the car with the force of charging bull, sending her slamming hard into the door beside her, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.

“What’s happen —”

Ron gasped, staring through the windshield, and Violet looked up just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.

“Aaargh!” said Ron as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like twigs and branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving —

“Run for it!” Ron shouted, throwing his full weight against the door, but next second he had been knocked backward into Harry’s lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch.

“We’re done for!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the engine had restarted.

“ _ Reverse! _ ” Harry yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.

“That,” panted Ron, “ was close. Well done, car —”

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With a series of sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Violet felt her seat tip sideways: Next thing she knew she was sprawled on the damp ground with Ron face-down beside her. Loud thuds told her that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Crookshanks’ carrier flew through the air and burst open; he peeled off across the dark lawn with a loud yowl, tail bushed out as he sped toward the castle without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

“Come back!” Ron yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand. “Dad’ll kill me!”

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust.

“Can you  _ believe _ our luck?” said Ron miserably, bending down to pick up Scabbers. “Of all the trees we could have hit, we had to get one that hits back.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly.

“Come on,” said Violet wearily, “we’d better get up to the school . . .”

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had pictures. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

“I think the feast’s already started,” said Ron, dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window. “Hey — you two — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”

Harry and Violet hurried over and, together, they all peered in at the Great Hall.

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparked with stars.

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hat, Violet saw a long line of scared- looking first years filing into the Great Hall. Ginny was among them, easily visible because of her vivid Weasley hair. Meanwhile, Professor McGonagall, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a tight bun, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts Houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin). Violet well remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in her ear. Her worst fears had been realized when the hat placed her in a house other than the one her brother had just been sorted into. Harry was a Gryffindor, and Violet was put into Slytherin — a House with a reputation for turning out more Dark witches and wizards than any other, as Harry was so fond of reminding her. But she had ended up making fast friends in Slytherin that very night.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on his head. Violet’s eyes wandered past him to where Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his long silver beard and half-moon glasses shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Violet saw Gilderoy Lockhart, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Hagrid, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.

“Hang on . . .” Harry muttered. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table . . . where’s Snape?”

Professor Snape was Violet’s Head of House, and Harry’s least favourite teacher. Violet was also willing to wager that Harry was Snape’s least favourite student, although she hadn’t had any trouble with him herself. Sarcastic and quick to find fault in even the simplest of projects, Snape taught Potions, and was disliked by most everyone outside of Slytherin.

“Maybe he’s ill!” said Ron hopefully. Violet thwacked him on the arm.

“Maybe he’s  _ left, _ ” said Harry, “because he’s missed out on the Defense Against the Dark Arts job  _ again _ !”

“Harry, that’s not fair —” Violet protested.

“Or he might have been  _ sacked _ !” said Ron enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates him —”

“Ron,  _ stop _ —”

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he’s waiting to hear why you three didn’t arrive on the school train.”

Violet spun around. There, in his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Severus Snape. He was a thin man with very pale skin, a hooked nose, and rather greasy, shoulder- length black hair, and at this moment, he was smiling in a way that told them all they were in very deep trouble.

“Follow me,” said Snape.

Not daring to even look at each other, Violet, Ron, and Harry followed Snape up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Snape led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons.

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

They entered Snape’s office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of fascinating, preserved things that, at any other time, Violet would have loved to get a closer look at. At the moment, all she wanted was for her teeth to stop chattering. The fireplace was dark and empty. Snape closed the door and turned to look at them.

“So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Potter Twins and their faithful sidekick, Weasley. Wanted to arrive with a  _ bang _ , did we, children?”

“No, s-sir,” Violet tried to explain desperately. “It was the barrier at King’s Cross, it —”

“Silence!” said Snape coldly, sending her shrinking back. He turned his attention to the boys. “What have you done with the car?”

Ron gulped. This wasn’t the first time Professor Snape had given Violet the impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, she understood, as Snape unrolled today’s issue of the  _ Evening Prophet. _

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the headline:  _ FLYING FORD ANGLIA MYSTIFIES MUGGLES. _ He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in London, convinced they saw an old car flying over the Post Office tower . . . at noon in Norfolk, Mrs. Hetty Bayliss, while hanging out her washing . . . Mr. Angus Fleet, of Peebles, reported to police . . . Six or seven Muggles in all. I believe  _ your _ father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking up at Ron with a sour smile on his face. “Dear, dear . . . his own son . . .”

Violet felt as though she’d just been walloped in the stomach by one of the mad tree’s larger branches. If anyone found out that Mr. Weasley had bewitched the car . .  they hadn’t thought of that . . .

“I noticed, in my search of the park, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Professor Snape went on.

“That tree did more damage to  _ us _ than we —” Ron blurted out.

“ _ Silence _ !” snapped Snape again. “Most unfortunately, two of you are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I shall go and fetch the people who  _ do _ have that authority. You will wait here.”

Harry and Ron were staring at each other, white-faced. As soon as the door slammed shut, Violet burst into tears. She didn’t feel hungry anymore. She now felt extremely sick. Professor Snape was going to have them thrown out of school and shipped back to the Dursleys, back to the room with the bars on the window and the flap on the door and they were never, ever going to see the light of day again.

Ten minutes later, Professor Snape returned with Professor McGonagall accompanying him. Violet had seen Professor McGonagall angry on several occasions, but either she had forgotten just how thin her mouth could go, or she had never seen her this angry before. She raised her wand the moment she entered; Harry and Violet both flinched, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted.

“Sit,” she said, and conjured three wooden chairs by the fire.

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Ron launched into the story, staring with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

“— so we had no choice, Professor, we couldn’t get on the train.”

“Why didn’t you send us a letter by owl? I believe  _ you _ have an owl?” Professor McGonagall said coldly to Harry.

“But we  _ did _ !” Violet said, her voice cracking painfully. She’d not been able to stop crying yet, and her eyes were aching. “I sent Hedwig off with a letter to the school but —”

There was a knock on the office door and Professor Snape, now looking more satisfied than ever, opened it. There stood the headmaster, Professor Dumbledore.

Violet’s whole body went numb. Dumbledore was looking unusually grave. He stared down his very crooked nose at them, and Violet found herself wishing they were all still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow.

There was a long silence. Then Professor Dumbledore reached into the great sleeve of his robes and produced a small, weathered scroll of scratch paper that Violet recognized at once.

“I received this only moments ago,” Professor Dumbledore said softly. “It is unfortunate that it did not find its way to me sooner, or perhaps this situation could have been entirely avoided.”

He passed the note to Professor McGonagall, who’s eyes darted quickly over the few short lines it contained. Violet knew exactly what it said — she had written it, after all.

 

_ Professor Dumbledore, _

_ We couldn’t make the train. The platform barrier wouldn’t let us through and we are alone. We’re coming by car.  _

_ Sorry for any trouble caused. Please don’t worry. _

 

_ Violet Potter, with Harry Potter & Ron Weasley _

 

Professor McGonagall sighed breathed heavily and handed the letter to Professor Snape, who frowned deeply as he read it over. Professor Dumbledore was still staring at the three of them through his glasses.

“Please don’t send us home,” Violet said quietly, and all three teachers looked at her. “I — I tried to get help, but —”

She felt another sob coming up in her throat and tried to swallow it, only for it to come out anyways as a hiccough. Beside her, Ron hung his head.

“We’ll go and get our stuff,” he said, in a voice as hopeless as Violet felt.

“What are you talking about, Weasley?” barked Professor McGonagall.

“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Ron.

Violet couldn’t hold back the next sob.

“Not today, Mr. Weasley,” said Professor Dumbledore, and she could scarcely believe her ears. “But I must impress upon all of you the seriousness of what you have done. I will be writing to both your families tonight. I must also warn you that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice but to expel you. I believe, however, that your Heads of Houses and I are all of the opinion that such action is unwarranted at this time.”

Violet finally raised her watery eyes to see Professor McGonagall nod crisply; Professor Snape was looking straight at her. His eyes flicked away as she met them.

“I must go back to the feast, Minerva,” Professor Dumbledore said lightly. “I’ve got to give a few notices. Come, Severus, there’s a delicious looking custard I want to sample —”

Snape shot a look of pure venom at Harry and Ron as he allowed himself to be swept out of his own office, leaving them all alone with Professor McGonagall, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle.

“You’d better get along the hospital wing, Weasley, you’re bleeding.”

“Not much,” said Ron, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve. “Professor, I wanted to watch my sister being Sorted —”

“The Sorting Ceremony is over,” she said. “You sister is in Gryffindor.”

“Oh, good,” said Ron.

“And speaking of Gryffindor —” Professor McGonagall said sharply, but Harry cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, term hadn’t started, so — so Gryffindor shouldn’t really have any points taken from it — should it?” he finished, watching her anxiously.

Professor McGonagall gave him a piercing look, but Violet was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor,” she said, and Violet’s mouth nearly fell open in shock. If she had tried that with Snape — “But the three of you will all be getting a detention.”

It was far better than Violet had expected. As for Dumbledore writing to the Dursleys, that was nothing. Violet knew perfectly well they’d just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t squashed her and Harry flat.

Professor McGonagall raised her wand again and pointed it at Professor Snape’s desk. A large plate of sandwiches, three silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

“You will eat in here and then go straight to your dormitories,” she said. “I must also return to the feast.”

When the door had closed behind her, Ron let out a long, low whistle.

“I thought we’d had it,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.

“So did I,” said Harry, taking one, too. He handed it to Violet, who was busy scrubbing her face with the sleeve of her robes.

“Can you believe our luck, though?” said Ron thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Fred and George must’ve flown that car five or six times and no Muggle ever saw  _ them. _ ” He swallowed and took another huge bite.

“ _ Why _ couldn’t we get through the barrier?”

“It felt like something was stopping us,” Violet said, nibbling at the corner of her own sandwich.

Harry shrugged. “We’ll have to watch our step from now on, through,” he said, taking a big swig of pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the feast . . .”

“She didn’t want us showing off,” said Ron sagely. “Doesn’t want people to think it’s clever, arriving by flying car.”

When they’d eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left the office, parting ways in the entrance hall to head off to their respective common rooms. Gryffindor Tower was somewhere up the grand marble staircase, Violet knew, but Slytherins lived and slept down in the dungeon deep below the surface of the black lake. The entrance onto the common room was a stretch of plain stone wall which Violet knew concealed a hidden door.

She realized, suddenly, that she did not know the password.

Biting her lip, Violet reached up and did something that she had not done since the school year before: she unfastened the long leather cord that hung around her neck and slipped free the gleaming silver ring that she kept hanging beside the polished bone pendant. With a deep breath, she pushed the ring onto her middle finger and walked straight through the solid wall.

There was a loud gasp, and Violet immediately pulled the ring from her finger. Not a moment later she was nearly bowled over by the force of Tracey Davis slamming into her and wrapping her in a tight, enthusiastic hug.

“I  _ knew _ you’d make it!” Tracey squealed, nearly lifting Violet off her feet in excitement. “Malfoy said you’d be thrown out, but me and Cassius told him to shove it because we  _ knew _ they’d let you stay, they just had to! Oh, this is excellent!”

“Missed you on the train,” said the familiar voice of Cassius Warrington, and Violet opened her eyes to see him standing behind Tracey with his hands stuffed in his pockets, a crooked smirk on his long face. He reached out and pulled her into a one-armed hug.

“Sorry I’m late,” Violet said shyly, extracating herself from the arms of her friends. “I really missed you guys, too . . . you’re not mad?”

“ _ Mad _ ?” Cassius laughed. “You’re joking — what for? If anything I’m mad I wasn’t there to watch Prissy Potter stealing a car.”

“We didn’t  _ steal _ it!” Violet said, her face going red. “Well —  _ I _ didn’t steal it —”

“I don’t believe it!” said a new from further in the dormitory, and all three of them whirled around. Draco Malfoy was standing in the doorway that led to the boy’s dormitory, an expression of pure shock on his pointed face. “You’re still  _ here _ ?”

“Just flew in a bit ago,” Violet said, sticking out her chin at what she hoped was a cocky angle. “Were you waiting up for me, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s face went pink, but he looked furious.

“Are they letting you stay the night out of pity?” he said nastily. “Get one last look at the place before sending you back to the Muggles?”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Cassius shot back, stepping in front of Violet to block her from Malfoy’s view. “And didn’t I already tell you to shove off, you pox.”

Violet could just see the top of Malfoy’s head over Cassius’ shoulder, which had turned a vibrant shade of red under his white-blond hair, but a moment later he turned and the sound of his footsteps disappeared back down the stairs to the boy’s dormitories.

Tracey burst out laughing. Even Violet, who had been feeling rotten for approximately seven hours straight, couldn’t stop the giggle from bubbling up through her lips. Cassius turned around and dropped his tough-guy expression, replacing it with a cheesy smile.

“Right, now that he’s gone — tell us everything!”


	6. Gilderoy Lockhart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Compared to the night before, staying up and laughing with her friends, the next day started going downhill at a fairly steep rate for Violet. The four long House tables were laden with tureens of porridge, plates of kippers, mountains of toast, and dishes of eggs and bacon, beneath the enchanted ceiling (today a dull, cloudy grey). Violet and Tracey found Cassius already at the Slytherin table and plopped down on either side of him and began filling their plates at once. Draco Malfoy was also already seated, several seats down on the opposite side of the table — Violet could hear snippets of his loud whispering to his friends, Crabbe and Goyle, but was determined not to hear any of it.

“Mail ought to be here soon,” Tracey said, licking the excess marmalade off her spoon. “I hope Papa remembered to send me my trainers, I forgot them when I was packing . . .”

Violet had only just started her porridge when, sure enough, there was a rushing sound overhead and a hundred or so owls streamed in, circling the hall and dropping letters and packages into the chattering crowd. Tracey let out a noise of delight as a lumpy package was dropped into her lap, but Violet’s attention was drawn to a familiar, struggling mass of grey feathers flapping its way toward the Gryffindor table. A moment later it dropped from the air and landed squarely in a milk jug.

“That poor thing,” Violet muttered — Errol was the Weasley’s owl, and he was old and feeble and prone to collapse at the end of even the shortest flights. She watched Ron pull him from the milk jug and, across the table, saw Neville Longbottom’s face go white as a sheet.

“Something’s wrong,” she said, just starting to get to her feet when —

**_“RONALD WEASLEY!”_ **

A roar of sound filled the huge hall, shaking dust from the ceiling.

**_“— STEALING THE CAR, I WOULDN’T HAVE BEEN SURPRISED IF THEY’D EXPELLED YOU, YOU WAIT TIL I GET HOLD OF YOU, I DON’T SUPPOSE YOU STOPPED TO THINK WHAT YOUR FATHER AND I WENT THROUGH WHEN WE SAW IT WAS GONE —”_ **

Mrs. Weasley’s yells, a hundred times louder than usual, made the plates and spoons rattle on even the Slytherin table, and echoed deafeningly off the stone walls. People throughout the hall were swiveling around to see what the source of the awful noise was, and Ron sank so low in his chair that only his crimson forehead could be seen.

**_“—_** **_LETTER FROM DUMBLEDORE LAST NIGHT, I THOUGHT YOUR FATHER WOULD DIE OF SHAME, WE DIDN’T BRING YOU UP TO BEHAVE LIKE THIS, YOU AND THE TWINS COULD HAVE DIED —”_**

Violet sat down immediately.

**_“—_** **_ABSOLUTELY DISGUSTED — YOUR FATHER’S FACING AN INQUIRY AT WORK AND IT’S ENTIRELY YOUR FAULT AND IF YOU PUT ANOTHER TOE OUT OF LINE WE’LL BRING YOU STRAIGHT BACK HOME.”_**

A ringing silence fell. It was broken moments later by the sound of laughter and, gradually, a babble of talk broke out again.

Violet looked around at Tracey, shock written all over both of their faces.

“What  _ was _ that?” Tracey asked, uncovering her ears.

“Howler,” said Cassius as he sipped his pumpkin juice. “You’ve never gotten one before?”

“Muggles don’t have those,” Violet told him, which earned a bewildered shrug. It was a good thing the Dursleys never showed any interest in magical communication — she could only imagine the sort of horrible mail she and Harry would get if Uncle Vernon knew that he could still shout at them from halfway across the country.

But she had no time to dwell on this; Professor Snape was moving along the Slytherin table, handing out course schedules. Violet took hers and saw that they had double Charms with the Ravenclaws first.

Violet and Tracey waved goodbye to Cassius, who was on his way to his fourth year Care of Magical Creatures class out on the grounds, and made for the third floor.

They arrived early, and as Violet was making her way to her seat she was stopped by a high, familiar voice calling, “Here, please, Potter!”

Professor Flitwick, a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see while teaching class, was waving her over to his desk. Violet handed her things off to Tracey and nervously made her way to the front of the classroom.

“Yes, Professor?” she said. Flitwick was at eye level with her for once, already standing on his books. He took a moment to rummage through some papers on his desk, and Violet’s heart sank as he produced short, printed, formal-looking notice with her name on it.

“I wanted a word with you before class started, Miss Potter,” Professor Flitwick said, looking at her sternly over the rims of his rounded glasses. “Now, I have an acquaintance in the Improper Use of Magic Office who is kind enough to inform me when students of mine receive reprimands for use of certain kinds of magic — oh, dear, there’s no need to upset! You aren’t in trouble!”

Violet was blinking rapidly to try and stop the tears from building in her eyes, but evidently it wasn’t working. Professor Flitwick produced a handkerchief from thin air and quickly handed it to her.

“Well, I should say, you are a  _ little _ bit in trouble, but not with me,” said Professor Flitwick. “No, no — I wanted to speak to you, Potter, about — well, how shall I put this —” He tossed the slip of paper back into the pile on his desk, thinking. As Violet was dabbing at her eyes with the handkerchief, he said, “You have something of a  _ knack _ for spell-work. I noticed it right away from the moment you stepped into my class, and I believe that you have the potential to greatly excel Charms. 

“This incident over the summer — Hover charms are more complicated than most give them credit for and I must say I was delighted to hear that you had achieved such a spell outside of the class room — though you shouldn’t have done that, I’m afraid I really must stress it  _ is _ against the rules —”

“It’s not what you think, sir,” Violet said quickly. “The Hover charm wasn’t —”

“Ah, ah!” said Professor Flitwick, shushing her with a waggle of his finger. “I don’t need to know the details, Potter, and in fact I believe it best that I don’t know anything about it, eh? Now — as your teacher, it is my duty to caution you against further infractions of magical laws and steer you away from such unruly behavior. However —”

Professor Flitwick leaned in slightly, his eyes twinkling behind his round spectacles.

“As your teacher, it is  _ also _ my duty to encourage you to pursue your passions, and to notice when a student is not benefitting from the limits of the standard curriculum. You are on good terms with Mr. Warrington, I understand? Another fine student and a good lad, from what I’ve seen in my classes. I advise you to ask him to mentor you, Miss Potter. With any luck the guidance from an older student will keep you from becoming restless in your lessons, and I believe Mr. Warrington could benefit from some of your patience as well. Think on it, won’t you? And should you ever need a place to show off what you’ve learned, Potter, my office is open most days after lunch and before dinner. Off you go, now!”

With a conspiratorial little wink, Professor Flitwick waved Violet, feeling rather dazed, back to her seat. The rest of the class had started to trickle in, groups of students chattering amongst each and filling the room with a low, excited buzz. Tracey was on the edge of her seat with anxiety by the time Violet sat down beside her.

“Are you in trouble?” she asked quietly, her brows knit in concern. When Violet shook her head, her expression immediately brightened. “Oh, good! What did Flitwick want, then?”

“He wants me to be careful with my magic,” Violet said, “but he also told me to talk to Cassius about being my mentor?”

“ _ Cassius _ ?”

“He’s good with Charms, too, apparently? D’you think I should ask him after class?”

Tracey nodded emphatically. “Absolutely. Even if he says no, you can tell him what Flitwick said about him. He likes hearing nice things about himself.”

“Don’t most people?” Violet said with a grin, but their conversation was cut short by Professor Flitwick calling for quiet, and the start of the year’s very first lesson began.

Flitwick’s classes always started with a practical demonstration. For the next few weeks they would be focusing on Scouring Charms, he informed them brightly, before pulling the lid off a large barrel beside his desk and tipping its contents onto the floor. A thick, green, foul- smelling sludge splashed all down the center aisle, prompting screams and retching sounds from those in the front rows. Students were starting to climb onto their desks and chairs when Professor Flitwick shouted a few short words, swept his wand back and forth, and removed both the muck and the smell in a matter of moments. There was a lot of clapping at this display, and then a lot of groaning as they were instructed to open their books and begin reading through the chapters pertaining to Scouring Charms and their history. It would be another week at least before any of them were to practice casting it themselves.

After Charms, Violet and Tracey headed down to the first floor for their History of Magic lesson with the ghostly Professor Binns, who had fallen asleep one day in the staffroom and gotten up to teach the next morning, leaving his body behind.

Professor Binns launched into a dull lecture the moment they were all seated. Violet hastily started taking notes — she’d learned last year that no matter how monotonous Binns’ voice could be, he would usually talk about some pretty interesting stuff. 

He was half an hour into a speech about the foundation of various medieval wizarding societies when a murmur started rippling out from the opposite side of the classroom.

“Did you see that?” Millicent Bulstrode whispered loudly, prompting Violet to look up from her notes. Several students were already standing up out of their seats, looking toward the windows. Violet craned her neck to see over Goyle’s hulking shoulders —

Sheets of paper were floating past outside the classroom windows, as though they’d fallen from a great height, and Violet had just nudged Tracey’s arm to direct her attention when something much larger and heavier went flying past.

“. . .  with which a sub-committee of Sardinian sorcerers was involved in September of that year . . .”

Professor Binns droned on, oblivious to the fact that his entire class had left their seats and crossed the room, fogging up the windows with their noses pressed to the cold glass. Books had joined the papers now, and a full bookbag went sailing past and scattered its contents on the lawns below. Inkpots, chairs, an awful lot of Lockhart books, even a  _ wand _ came spinning from above and stuck point-first into the dewy grass. They spent the rest of class there by the windows, watching as what looked like half a classroom was dashed on the ground outside, not hearing a word of what Professor Binns was saying.

It wasn’t until next period, after marching up to the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom only to find it closed with a note reading “LESSONS CANCELLED FOR TODAY” in very fancy handwriting pinned to the door, that they all found out what had happened.

“He’s mental!” Ron said loudly, when Violet cornered him and Harry at lunch time. “First he gave us this test, right at the start of all, but all the questions were about  _ him _ and his hair and his birthday and his favourite color. Then with no warning he pulls out this cage of pixies, right? He just — just  _ opened _ it and set the bloody things on us —”

‘He’ was, of course, Professor Gilderoy Lockhart, who Violet was beginning to suspect had very little to no actual teaching qualifications whatsoever. It was  _ his _ wand that had been tossed from the window above and landed outside the History of Magic classroom. It had taken Professors Flitwick and McGonagall the better part of the afternoon to round up all of the Cornish pixies that had escaped the classroom and begun running rampant throughout the school — they would have had an easier time of it, if not for Peeves’ involvement.

“I’m telling you, he’s an idiot,” Ron grumbled through a mouthful of soggy bread roll. “No idea what Dumbledore was thinking, hiring someone like  _ him. _ ”

 

Violet got her own taste of Lockhart’s idiocy the very next day.

As their lesson was postponed the day before, the Slytherins were to have a make-up lesson during one of their usual free periods, and all filed into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom that afternoon. The room itself had been mostly restored — some paintings were still hanging crooked on the walls, and students in the back row had to watch for pieces of glass on the floors. Violet and Tracey found seats together off to the side of the room.

When the whole class was seated, Professor Lockhart cleared his throat loudly and silence fell. He reached forward, picked up Theodore Nott’s copy of  _ Travels with Trolls _ , and held it up to show his own, winking portrait on the front.

“Me,” he said, pointing at it and winking as well. “Gilderoy Lockhart, Order of Merlin, Third Class, Honorary Member of the Dark Force Defense League, and five-time winner of  _ Witch Weekly’s _ Most-Charming-Smile Award — but I don’t talk about that. I didn’t get rid of the Bandon Banshee by  _ smiling _ at her!”

He waited for them to laugh; a few people smiled weakly.

“I see you’ve all bought a complete set of my books — well done. As with all of my other classes, I thought we’d start today with a little quiz. Nothing to worry about — just to check how well you’ve read them, how much you’ve taken in — hopefully more than some of your classmates —”

When he had handed out the test papers he returned to the front of the class and said, “You have thirty minutes — start —  _ now _ !”

Violet looked down at her paper and read:

 

  1. __What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s favourite color?__
  2. _What is Gilderoy Lockhart’s secret ambition?_
  3. _What, in your opinion, is Gilderoy Lockhart’s greatest achievement to date?_



It was exactly as bad as they had been warned by the other Houses. On and on it went, over three sides of paper, right down to:

  1. _When is Gilderoy Lockhart’s birthday, and what would his idea gift be?_



Violet hated herself for knowing the answer to most of these questions. She  _ had _ read all of the Lockhart’s books — they were required reading after all. But she resented the fact that absolutely nothing was related to the subject of Defense Against the Dark Arts.

Half an hour later, Lockhart collected the papers and rifled through them in front of the class.

“Tut, tut — hardly any of you remembered that my favourite color is  _ lilac _ . I say so in  _ Year with the Yeti _ . And a few of you need to read  _ Wandering with Werewolves _ more carefully — I clearly state in chapter twelve that my ideal birthday gift would be harmony between all magic and non-magical peoples — though I wouldn’t say no to a large bottle of Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey!”

He gave them another roguish wink. Tracey was now staring at Lockhart with an expression of disbelief; Draco Malfoy and his friends, Crabbe and Goyle, who were sitting in the back of the room, were doing a poor job of containing their laughter. Pansy Parkinson, on the other hand, was listening to Lockhart with rapt attention, chin resting delicately on her hands as she leaned toward the front of the class.

“. . . but Miss Violet Potter knew my secret ambition is to rid the world of evil,” Lockhart said loudly, and Violet gave a start as he mentioned her name, “and market my own range of hair-care potions — good girl! In fact” — he flipped her paper over — “full marks! Where is Miss Violet Potter?”

Violet immediately shrank down in her seat, which did nothing to stop Lockhart’s bright blues from landing on her, and his face to spread into a gleaming, white-toothed smile.

“There you are! Don’t know how I could have missed you, dear — we’ve met before of course, of course. Excellent! Quite excellent! Take ten points for Slytherin. And now — the lesson —”

He pulled another book off of Nott’s desk and waggled it over his head.

“Everyone, refer to your copies of  _ Break with a Banshee _ , please! As my practical lessons have thus far proved too much for my students — tut, tut, what  _ has _ this school been teaching you before I came along? — so today we will be doing some much-needed revision work! You there, what’s your name, dear?”

“P-Parkinson,” Pansy stammered as Lockhart pointed abruptly to her. “P-P-Pansy Parkinson, sir.”

“Pansy! How lovely. We’ve got Pansy and Violet, are there any more little flowers hiding in the class?”

Violet had already shrunk so far down in her seat that to go any lower would put her on the floor. Malfoy wasn’t even trying to cover his laughter anymore. Lockhart either didn’t hear him or thought that Malfoy found him as charming as he found himself.

“Now, Miss Parkinson — is everyone open to chapter one? There is a rather excellent foreword written by Madam Abjura Cramshaw, a dear old friend of mine, however I think we can skip on over that without missing much. Right, then, Pansy, why don’t you go ahead and read the first line for us?”

The rest of the lesson was spent going around the class, each of them being forced in turn to read aloud from Lockhart’s books and take notes as they listened. Lockhart was not impressed with their monotonous, unenthusiastic rendition of his narration, constantly chiding them to be more theatrical, more dramatic. No one listened. When it came time for her turn, Violet mumbled and stammered and refused to make eye contact despite Lockhart’s increasingly aggressive attempts.

They had gotten to the third chapter of  _ Break with a Banshee _ by the time class ended. As no one had bothered to unpack anything besides quills and ink, they all leapt to their seats and made a mad dash for the door.

“We’ll pick up where left off next week!” Lockhart called over their retreating heads. “Plenty of time to practice adding some flair into it!”


	7. Mudbloods and Murmurs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet spent a lot of time over the next few days dodging out of sight whenever she saw Gilderoy Lockhart coming down a corridor, which was something she found Harry doing as well. He told Violet how Lockhart had been waiting for him outside the greenhouses, and of the new menace in his life — Colin Creevey.

Colin was a small, mousy, excitable boy who carried a camera with him everywhere he went and made a point of taking as many photographs of Harry and Violet as he possibly could. As a fellow Gryffindor, it was easier for him to focus on Harry, for which Violet was immensely grateful. She hated having her picture taken — photos of her never came out quite right. There was always something off about her features, to her eyes, and the very idea of a magical moving portrait of herself was unnerving.

Malfoy had become even more insufferable well, if that were even possible. Fueled by Colin and Lockhart’s adoration for the Potter twins, his animosity toward them had grown more and more pronounced — he jeered at Violet when she raised her hand in class, comment- ing loudly that she didn’t need to show off as there was no one there to take her picture. He made a sport of calling out Harry and Violet’s positions to Colin, or addressing them loudly whenever Lockhart was in earshot. In the Slytherin common room, he made such a pest of himself that Violet and Tracey had taken to doing their homework sprawled out on their four- poster beds rather than trying to block out his loud commentary on Violet’s every move while trying to work at one of the tables.

Crookshanks was still angry with her about the disastrous car journey as well. He’d come stomping through the dormitory the next day, straight past her astonished welcome, and sequestered himself just out of reach beneath Tracey’s bed. Only his furious orange eyes could be seen in the darkness, and all attempts to reach for him were met with increasingly aggressive growls. It was easier to just leave him be.

With the whole week starting out so rotten, Violet was very happy to reach the weekend. She and Harry had made arrangements to visit Hagrid on Saturday morning. Violet, however, was rudely awoken several hours earlier than she would have liked by loud, excited voices coming from the common room.

“Whassamaater?” said Tracey groggily, sitting up as Violet climbed out of bed.

“Noisy boys,” Violet said angrily. She yanked her robes on over her pajamas and pulled open the door, letting in even more of the raucous cheering. She stomped up the short stone staircase, intent on giving the noisemakers a piece of her sleepy, sleepy mind, but stopped short as soon as she reached the top of the steps. There were a lot more people in the common room than she’d expected, and almost all of them were older. Still in their pajamas, a group of large boys were gathered about the entryway, circled around something Violet couldn’t see, oohing and aahing.

She padded closer, trying to remain out of sight while craning her neck to see what all the fuss was about.

“Potter!”

Malfoy’s pale face peeked out from between the shoulders of two much bigger boys, grinning nastily. Half a dozen faces turned to look at her and Violet very nearly darted straight back down the stairs. “Come to join the celebration?”

“What are we celebrating?” Violet asked carefully, taking a few more steps toward them. Malfoy gave a nod and the crowd split to reveal what was in their center. Violet gasped.

Each boy, who she now realized were all six members of the Slytherin Quidditch team, was holding a highly polished, brand-new racing broom. Malfoy was holding one as well, and he posed smugly with it as she approached. On the handle she could make out the fine gold lettering that spelled the words  _ Nimbus Two Thousand and One _ .

“Impressive, aren’t they?” said Malfoy. “The very latest model — These ought to help Slytherin keep our hold on the Quidditch cup for  _ another _ eight years, wouldn’t you say?”

“Where did they come from?” asked Violet, trying very hard not to be impressed. They were very pretty brooms — the handles were polished with black laquer, unlike Harry’s simple brown broom. Malfoy’s smile grew wider and nastier.

“My father,” he said. “Slytherin was his house as well, you see — and we proper Slytherins like to take care of our own. He’s not here to take your thanks directly, but I can pass your gratitude on to him if you like.”

“I’ll keep it, thanks,” Violet said through clenched teeth. A chuckle went up around the room. She realized suddenly that everyone had stopped ogling over their brooms and taken to watching them instead.

“You  _ should _ thank me, Potter,” Malfoy said, the grin vanishing from his pointed face. “It’s only polite. And a bit of politeness might be the only thing keeping me from knocking your brother off his broom. I’ll bet those glasses of his aren’t the only thing that breaks easy.”

“You don’t have any business on a broom Malfoy,” said Violet, cutting through the low chuckles around her. “How long did it take Madam Hooch to correct all your little mistakes again? You’d have some luck finding yourself on the Quidditch pitch after all that.”

“I suppose it’s luck that’s on my side, then,” Malfoy spat, his eyes blazing, “seeing as I’ve been recruited to the House team.”

“Oh, how much  _ that _ cost your father? Or was it included with the price of the brooms?”

Malfoy took an angry step toward her and when Violet tried to step back, she found her path blocked by the large, leering form of Marcus Flint, the Slytherin team captain. He grinned down at her.

“You’d better start showing some gratitude, Potter,” Malfoy said, far too close to Violet for her own comfort. “Or my new friends and I might be insulted. You don’t want to insult  _ us _ , do you?”

Six broad, hulking boys were now gathered in a circle around her and Malfoy, blocking every path that she could take to get away. Violet realized, viscerally and immediately, that she was in danger. Outnumbered and outsized, she had little chance of holding her own if they decided the confrontation needed to come to blows. Her face felt hot and her heart was racing in her chest as Malfoy took another half step into her space.

“So how about that ‘thank you?’”

“How about leaving her alone, you prat?”

Malfoy looked up and the other boys whirled around at the shout from across the room, and Violet wasted no time in using the opening to dart under Flint’s elbow and slip out of his reach.

Gemma Farley, former prefect and current Head Girl, was standing in the doorway of the girl’s dormitory, wearing a bright pink bathrobe and a fierce scowl. Her wand was drawn, and pointed right at Flint’s ugly, troll-like face.

“Over here, Potter,” she commanded, and Violet scampered behind her at once. “Did they hurt you? No? Good. Get back to your dorm and get dressed. I’ll have a word with these gents on your behalf.”

Violet didn’t have to be told twice. Without so much as a backward glance at Malfoy’s pointed little face she raced back into her dormitory and slammed the door behind her. Tracey, who was only just in the process of pulling on her slippers, started at the sudden noise.

“What was the bang?”

“Sorry,” Violet said. She flashed a smile to cover the fact that she was shaking all over. “Things should be quieter out there now.”

Perhaps they would have been, if that hadn’t been the exact moment that Gemma Farley started to shout.

 

Violet had planned to spend the entire rest of the day locked in the safety of the girl’s dormitory — she would have, if not for Tracey’s reminder that Harry’s first practice was meant to be that morning. She’d promised him she would be there to see him fly and knew Harry would be hurt if she didn’t show up.

She and Tracey dressed quickly and waited for the yelling to quiet down out in the common room before venturing up the stairs and peeking out. The Quidditch team and their broomsticks were gone, leaving only a breathless Gemma and the handful of brave souls that had peeked to see who’d earned the chewing out.

Keeping an eye out for unwanted attention, the pair of them hurried outside and made their way across the field to the Quidditch pitch.

“Oh,  _ no, _ ” Violet groaned, drawing up short as they passed through the stands. “I’m too late . . .”

Harry and the rest of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, along with Ron and Hermione, were standing out in the middle of the field in their practice robes, facing off against the bulk of the Slytherin Quidditch team with their new brooms and new Seeker. The Slytherins were smiling, but none of the Gryffindors look happy. Tracey looked to Violet uncertainly.

“Do you think we should —”

Whatever she was about to suggest was cut off by a sudden yell of outage followed by a loud, sharp bang. Violet watched in horror as Ron was sent flying backward and landed heavily in the grass. By the time Violet and Tracey reached him, Malfoy and the Slytherin team were in hysterics.

“What happened?” Violet cried. “Who hit him?”

“His wand backfired,” Harry told her, helping Hermione to heave Ron to his feet. “We’ve got to get him to Hagrid’s, he’s closest —”

Ron interrupted Harry with a loud belch, and Tracey screamed in horror as several slugs dribbled out of his mouth and down his chest.

“Gross!” she cried, taking several flailing steps away from Ron and the slugs. “Oh my gosh, that is so  _ gross _ ! I’m gonna be sick, Violet, I swear —”

“Go back inside, then,” Violet snapped, following after her brother. He and Hermione supported Ron out of the stadium and across the grounds toward the edge of the forest.

“Nearly there, Ron,” said Hermione as the gamekeeper’s cabin came into view. “You’ll be alright in a minute — almost there —”

They were within twenty feet of Hagrid’s house when the front door opened, but it wasn’t Hagrid who emerged. Gilderoy Lockhart, wearing robes of palest mauve today, came striding out.

“Quick, behind here,” Harry hissed, dragging Ron behind a nearby bush while Violet took hold of Hermione’s arm and dragged her as well.

“It’s a simple matter if you know what you’re doing!” Lockhart was saying loudly to Hagrid. “If you need help, you know where I am! I’ll let you have a copy of my book. I’m surprised you haven’t already got one — I’ll sign it tonight and send it over. Well, good-bye!” And he strode away toward the castle.

They waited until Lockhart was out of sight, then pulled Ron out of the bush and up to Hagrid’s front door. Harry knocked urgently.

Hagrid appeared at once, looking very grumpy, but his expression brightened when he saw who it was.

“Bin wonderin’ when you’d come ter see me — come in, come in — thought you mighta bin Professor Lockhart back again —”

Harry and Hermione supported Ron over the threshold into the one-roomed cabin, which had an enormous bed in one corner, a fire crackling merrily in the other. Hagrid didn’t seem perturbed by Ron’s slug problem, which Harry hastily explained as he lowered Ron into a chair.

“Better out than in,” he said cheerfully, plunking a large copper basin in front of him. “Get ‘em all up, Ron.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to do except wait for it to stop,” said Hermione anxiously, watching Ron bend over the basin. “That’s a difficult curse to work at the best of times, but with a broken wand —”

Hagrid was bustling around making them tea. His boarhound, Fang, was slobbering over Violet, who had taken the seat farthest from Ron to avoid this very problem.

“What did Lockhart want with you, Hagrid?” Harry asked conversationally.

“Givin’ me advice on gettin’ kelpies out of a well,” growled Hagrid, moving a half-plucked rooster off his scrubbed table and setting down the teapot. “Like I don’ know. An’ bangin’ on about some banshee he banished. If one word of it was true, I’ll eat my kettle.”

It was most unlike Hagrid to criticize a Hogwarts teacher, and the twins looked at him in surprise. Hermione, however, said in a voice somewhat higher than usual, “I think you’re being a bit unfair. Professor Dumbledore obviously thought he was the best man for the job —”

“He was the  _ on’y _ man fer the job,” said Hagrid, offering them a plate of treacle toffee, while Ron coughed squelchily into his basin. “An’ I mean the  _ on’y _ one. Gettin’ very difficult ter find anyone fer the Dark Arts job. People aren’t too keen ter take it on, see. They’re startin’ ter think it’s jinxed.  No one’s lasted fer a long while now.”

“But what about Professor Snape?” Violet said, confused. “Everyone says he’s been wanting the job for years — if there’s no one else after the position why doesn’t Dumbledore just let him have it?”

Hagrid grimaced. “Tha’s a question fer Professor Dumbledore, Violet. I wouldn’t recommend askin’ Snape about it — touchy subject. So tell me,” said Hagrid, jerking his head at Ron. “Who was he tryin’ ter curse?”

“Malfoy called Hermione something, “ Harry said. “It must’ve been really bad, because everyone went wild.”

“It  _ was _ bad,” said Ron hoarsely, emerging over the tabletop looking pale and sweaty. “Malfoy called her ‘Mudblood,’ Hagrid —”

Ron dived out of sight again as a fresh wave of slugs made their appearance. Hagrid looked outrage.

“He didn’!” he growled at Hermione.

“He did,” she said. “But I don’t know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course —”

“It’s about the most insulting thing he could think of,” gasped Ron, coming back up. “Mudblood’s a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born — you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards — like Malfoy’s family — who think they’re better than everyone else because they’re what people call pure-blood.” He gave a small burp, and a single slug fell into his outstretched hand. He threw it into the basin and continued. “I mean, the rest of us know it doesn’t make any difference at all. Look at Neville Longbottom — he’s pure-blood and he can hardly stand a cauldron the right way up.”

“An’ they haven’ invented a spell our Hermione can’ do,” said Hagrid proudly, making Hermione go a brilliant shade of magenta.

“It’s a disgusting thing to call someone,” said Ron, wiping his sweaty brown with a shaking hand. “Dirty blood, see. Common blood. It’s ridiculous. Most wizards these days are half-blood anyway. If we hadn’t married Muggles we’d’ve died out.”

He retched and ducked out of sight again.

“Well, I don’ blame yeh fer tryin’ ter curse him, Ron,” said Hagrid loudly over the thuds of more slugs hitting the basin. “Bu’ maybe it was a good thing yer wand backfired. ‘Spect Lucius Malfoy would’ve come marchin’ up ter school if yeh’d cursed his son. Least yer not in trouble.”

Violet would have pointed out that trouble didn’t come much worse than having slugs pouring out of your mouth, but she couldn’t; Hagrid’s treacle toffee had cemented her jaws together.”

“You two,” said Hagrid abruptly, as though struck by a sudden thought. “Gotta bone ter pick with yeh. I’ve heard you’ve bin givin’ out signed photos. How come I haven’t got one?”

“We have  _ not _ been giving out signed photos,” Harry said hotly as Violet shook her head, frantically trying to wrench her teeth apart. “If Lockhart’s still spreading that around —”

But then they saw that Hagrid was laughing.

“I’m on’y joking,” he said, patting Violet genially on the back and finally knocking her mouth open. “I knew yeh hadn’t really. I told Lockhart yeh didn’ need teh. Yer more famous than him without tryin’.”

“Bet he didn’t like that,” said Harry, sharing a grin with Violet.

“Don’ think he said,” said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling. “An’ then I told him I’d never read one o’ his books an’ he decided ter go. Treacle toffee, Ron?” he added as Ron reappeared.

“No thanks,” said Ron weakly. “Better not risk it.”

“Come an’ see what I’ve been growin’,” said Hagrid as Harry, Violet, and Hermione finished the last of their tea.

In the small vegetable patch behind Hagrid’s house were a dozen of the largest pumpkins Violet had ever seen. Each was the size of a large boulder.

“Gettin’ on well, aren’ they?” said Hagrid happily. “Fer the Halloween feast . . . she be big enough by then.”

“What’ve you been feeding them?” said Harry.

“Hagrid looked over his shoulder to check that they were alone.

“Well, I’ve been givin’ them — you know — a bit o’ help —”

Violet noticed Hagrid’s flowery pink umbrella leaning against the back of the cabin. Violet had reason to believe before now that this umbrella was not all it looked; in fact, she had the strong impression that Hagrid’s old school wand was concealed inside it. Hagrid wasn’t supposed to use magic, he had been expelled from Hogwarts in his third year, but Violet had never found out why — any mention on the matter and Hagrid would clear his throat loudly and become mysteriously deaf until the subject was changed.

“An Engorgement Charm, I suppose?” said Hermione, halfway through disapproval and amusement. “Well, you’ve done a good job on them.”

“That’s what yer little sister said,” said Hagrid, nodding at Ron. “Met her jus’ yesterday.” Hagrid looked sideways at Harry, his beard twitching. “Said she was jus’ lookin’ round the grounds, but I reckon she was hopin’ she might run inter someone else at my house.” He winked at Harry. “If yeh ask me,  _ she _ wouldn’ say no ter a signed —”

“Oh, shut up,” said Harry. Ron snorted with laughter and the ground was sprayed with slugs.

“Watch it!” Hagrid roared, pulling Ron away from his precious pumpkins.

It was nearly lunchtime and as the twins had only had bit on treacle toffee since dawn, they were eager to go back to school to eat. They all said goodbye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle, Ron hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out, “There you are, Potter — Potter — Weasley.” Professor McGonagall was walking toward them, looking stern. “You three will do your detentions this evening.”

“What’re we doing, Professor?” said Ron, nervously suppressing a burp.

“ _ You _ will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch,” said Professor McGonagall. “And no magic, Weasley — elbow grease.”

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.

“And you, Mr. and Miss Potter, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail,” said Professor McGonagall.

“Oh n — Professor, can’t I go to the trophy room, too?” said Harry.

“Can’t  _ I _ ?” Violet said desperately. “I’m  _ really _ good at polishing things!”

“Certainly not,” said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. “Professor Lockhart requested you two particularly. Eight o’clock sharp, all of you.”

The three of them slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, parting ways as they went to their separate tables. Both Cassius and Tracey were already seated and Violet slumped into the space they had saved for her. Before they could bombard her with questions, she launched into an explanation of what all had happened that afternoon — Ron’s backfiring wand, Malfoy’s slur (Cassius scrunched up his face in a frown), the slugs (Tracey gagged loudly), and finally the news of her detention.

“I’d give anything to swap with Ron,” Violet said hollowly. “I wasn’t lying — I really  _ am _ good polishing things. I’ve had loads of practice with the Dursleys. But answering Lockhart’s fan mail . . . he’ll be a nightmare . . .”

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and it what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and the twins were meeting up on the second floor landing, dragging their feet all the way down the corridor to Lockhart’s office.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down at them.

“Ah, there’s the scalawags,” he said. “Come in, children, come in —”

Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.

“You can address the envelopes!” Lockhart told Harry, “and you can seal them!” he told Violet. He said these things as though they were huge treats. “This first one’s to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her — huge fan of mine —”

The minutes snailed by. Violet and Harry let Lockhart’s voice wash over them, occasionally saying, “Mmm” and “Right” and “Yeah.” Now and then they caught a phrase like, “Fame’s a fickle friend, Harry,” or “Celebrity is as celebrity does, Violet, remember that.”

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching them. Violet moved her aching arm over what felt like the thousandth envelope, placing a small bead of wax onto the flap and pressing it down with the magical stamp Lockhart had given her. The stamp melted the wax on contact, leaving behind a shiny lilac imprint of a peacock’s tail.  _ It must be nearly time to leave, _ Violet thought miserably,  _ please let it be nearly time . . . _

Beside her, Harry gave a huge jump and shouted, “ _ What?” _

“I know!” said Lockhart. “Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list! Broke all records!”

“No,” said Harry frantically. “That voice?”

“Sorry?” said Lockhart, looking puzzled. “What voice?”

“That — that voice that said — didn’t you hear it?”

Lockhart looked at Violet, who was looking at Harry, and guffawed.

“What  _ are _ you talking about, Harry? Perhaps you’re getting a little drowsy? Great Scott — look at the time! We’ve been here nearly four hours! I’d never have believed it — the time’s flown, hasn’t it?”

Harry didn’t answer. He looked as though he was straining to focus, concentrating on some imperceivable thing. Violet placed a hand on his arm in concern and he jumped again.

“Are you alright?” she asked, as soon as Lockhart had ushered them out the door, telling them they mustn’t expect a treat like this every time they got detention.

“Y-yeah,” Harry said, looking dazed. His eyes darted up to catch hers, searching intently. “You . . . you really didn’t hear anything, Violet?”

“I don’t think I did,” Violet said honestly. “What was it saying?”

Harry shook his head with a grimace and tried to walk away, but Violet grabbed him by the elbow and brought him back around to face her.

“Harry,” she said earnestly, “please tell me what you heard. Look at you, you’re shaking. Was it something bad?”

“It said it wanted to kill me,” Harry blurted. “It said — ‘ _ Let me rip you, let me tear you, let me kill you.’ _ That’s what it said. That’s what I heard a voice saying in there just now.”

Harry was looking at the floor, hands clenched into nervous fists as he spoke, but Violet only stared at him, mouth open in shock. The hairs were standing up on the back of her neck.

“Harry, that’s horrible,” she said finally. Harry gave a hollow sort of laugh.

“Isn’t it? And  _ I’m _ the only one who heard it, unless Lockhart was lying. But why would he? And I know  _ you’re _ not lying about it, so — so what does it mean? Why would I have heard something like that?”

“I don’t know,” said Violet, shaking her head in apology. “Maybe Lockhart was right — it  _ is _ late, Harry . . . and I know I felt like letting my mind go while we were in there. Maybe — maybe try to get some sleep for now, and see if you hear it again later? Yeah?”

Violet watched Harry go on his way up to Gryffindor tower before heading down to the Slytherin dungeons. Perhaps it was just Harry’s words ringing in her ears, but Violet felt a distinct prickle at the back of her neck as she went down the long, shadowy staircase into the dungeons. The common room was dark by that time of night, and Tracey was fast asleep when Violet slipped into the dormitory. For the first time in a week, Crookshanks was curled up on her pillow. He grunted softly as Violet moved him aside, but snuggled up right beside her again. She was grateful for the warmth and the company — even so, she drifted into a nervous, fitful sleep.


	8. The Deathday Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

October arrived, spreading a damp chill over the grounds and into the castle. Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was kept busy by a sudden spate of colds among the staff and students. Her Pepperup Potion worked instantly, thought it left the drinker smoking at the ears for several hours afterward. Ginny Weasley, who had been looking pale, was bullied into taking some by Percy. The steam pouring from under her vivid hair gave the impression that her whole head was on fire.

Raindrops the size of bullets thundered on the castle windows for days on end; the lake rose, the flower beds turned into muddy streams, and Hagrid’s pumpkins swelled to the size of garden sheds. Students avoided heading outside unless they had to, and the journey down to the greenhouses had become more of a slog than anything else. However, according to Harry, the Gryffindor Quidditch captain was as enthusiastic as ever — he had them out for regular training sessions regardless of the stormy skies and frigid rain. Harry had discouraged Violet from coming to see him practice — Oliver Wood was very paranoid about Slytherins spying on the new tactics they’d been training with and it didn’t seem to matter that she was only there to support Harry. Telling him that she didn’t even  _ like _ Quidditch turned out to be a mistake as well.

Violet had been keeping a close eye on her brother, much closer than usual. Aside from worrying he would catch a cold from spending so much time out in the cold, she’d been very concerned about the strange, murderous voice Harry had heard during their late night detention. If Harry had heard anything more from the voice, he hadn’t mentioned it to her. But Violet was nothing if not determined — she was a Slytherin, after all.

Just because she couldn’t watch Harry’s Quidditch practice didn’t mean she had to miss out on spending time with him. It was  _ after _ practice that they could gather and talk, which was why the pair of them were to be found, late one stormy Saturday a few afternoons before Halloween, shuffling through the deserted hallways and grumbling about Quidditch. Wood, Harry’s team captain, was pushing them to be better and better, no matter how miserable the conditions, and the whole team’s morale was low after hearing what sort of speed the Slytherin team’s new brooms could reach. Violet hadn’t seen them in action — she made herself scarce whenever Marcus Flint showed his ugly face — but she’d overhead plenty of the loud bragging from Malfoy and the other players got up to in the common room.

As the pair of them walked — Harry squelching along in his dripping, muddied robes — they came across somebody that, for one, neither of them minding running into. Nearly Headless Nick, the ghost of Gryffindor Tower, was staring morosely out of a window, muttering under his breath, “. . . don’t fulfill their requirements . . . half an inch, if that . . .”

“Hello, Nick,” said Harry.

“Hello, hello,” said Nearly Headless Nick, starting and looking round. He wore a dash- ing, plumed hat on his long curly hair, and a tunic with a ruff, which concealed the fact that his neck was almost completely severed. He was pale as smoke, and Violet could see right through him — much the way that she could been through while wearing the mysterious, silver ring that had been given to her the Christmas before — to the dark sky and torrential rain outside,

“You look troubled, young Potters,” said Nick, folding a transparent letter as he spoke and tucking it inside his doublet.

“So do you,” said Violet.

“Ah,” Nearly Headless Nick waved an elegant hand, “a matter of no importance . . . It’s not as thought I really wanted to join . . . Thought I’d apply, but apparently I ‘don’t fulfill requirements’ —”

In spite of his airy tone, there was a look of great bitterness on his face.

“But you would think, wouldn’t you,” he erupted suddenly, pulling the letter back out of his pocket, “that getting his forty-five times in the neck with a blunt axe would qualify you to join the Headless Hunt?”

“Er —”

“Oh — yes,” said Harry, giving Violet a sharp look.

“I mean, nobody wished more than I do that it had all been quick and clean, and my head had come off properly, I mean, it would have saved me a great deal of pain and ridicule. However —”

 

_ “ ‘We can only accept huntsmen whose heads have parted company with their bodies. You will appreciate that it would be impossible otherwise for members to participate in hunt activities such as Horseback Head-Juggling and Head Polo. It is with greatest regret, therefore, that I must inform you that you do not fulfill out requirements. With very best wishes, Sir Patrick Delancy-Podmore.’ ” _

 

Fuming, Nearly Headless Nick stuffed the letter away.

“Half an inch of skin and sinew holding my neck on, Harry! Most people would think that’s good and beheaded, but oh, no, it’s not enough for Sir Properly Decapitated-Podmore.”

Nearly Headless Nick took several deep breaths and then said, in a far calmer tone, “So — what’s bothering you? Anything I can do?”

Violet was about to ask if he’d heard any scary voices in his head lately, but was cut off by Harry saying, “No, not unless you know where I can get seven free Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones for our next match against Sly —”

The rest of Harry’s sentence was drowned out by a high-pitched mewling from somewhere near their ankles. Violet looked down and found herself gazing into a pair of lamp-like yellow eyes. It was Mrs. Norris, the skeletal grey cat who was used by the caretaker, Mr. Filch, as a sort of deputy in his endless battle against students.

“You’d better get out of here, you two,” said Nick quickly. “Filch isn’t in a good mood — he’s got the flu and some third years accidentally plastered frog brains all over the ceiling in dungeon five. He’s been cleaning all morning, and if he sees you dripping mud all over the place —”

“Right,” said Harry, backing away from the accusing stare of Mrs. Norris, but not quickly enough. Drawn to the splot by the mysterious power that seemed to connect him and his foul cat, Mr. Filch burst suddenly through a tapestry to Violet’s left, wheezing and looking wildly about for the rule-breakers. There was a thick tartan scarf bound around his neck, and his nose was unusually purple.

“Filth!” he shouted, his jowls aquiver, his eyes popping alarmingly as he pointed at the muddy puddle that had dripped from Harry’s Quidditch robes. “Mess and muck everywhere! I’ve had enough of it, I tell you! Follow me, Potter!”

Violet hastily stepped out of Harry’s way only for Filch to snarl for her to follow as well.

“Me?” she protested. “But I’m clean!”

“You’re an accomplice,” Filch spat, “found at the scene of the crime! Follow me,  _ now _ !”

So the twins waved a gloomy good-bye to Nearly Headless Nick and followed Filch back downstairs, doubling the number of muddy footprints Harry had left on the floor.

Neither of them had ever been inside Filch’s office before; it was a place most students avoided. The room was dingy and windowless, lit by a single oil lamp dangling from the low ceiling. A faint smell of fried fish lingered about the place. Wooden filing cabinets stood around the walls; from their labels, Violet could see that they contained details of ever pupil Filch had ever punished. Fred and George Weasley had an entire drawer to themselves. A highly polished selection of chains and manacles hung on the wall behind Filch’s desk. It was common knowledge that he was always begging Dumbledore to let him suspect students by their ankles from the ceiling.

Filch grabbed a quill from a pot on his desk and began shuffling around looking for parchment.

“Dung,” he muttered furiously, “great sizzling dragon bogies . . . frog brains . . . rat intestines . . . I’ve had enough of it . . . make an  _ example _ . . . where’s the form . . . yes . . .”

He retrieved a large roll of parchment from his desk drawer and stretched it out in front of him, dipping his long black quill into the ink pot.

“We’ll start with you, boy.  _ Name _ . . . Harry Potter.  _ Crime _ . . .”

“It was only a bit of mud!” said Harry.

“It’s only a bit of mud to you, boy, but to me it’s an extra hour scrubbing!” shouted Filch, a drip shivering unpleasantly at the end of his bulbous nose. “ _ Crime _ . . . defouling the castle . . .  _ suggested sentence _ . . .”

Dabbing at his streaming nose, Filch squinted unpleasantly at Harry, who shrank back in his seat and waited for his sentence to fall.

But as Filch lowered his quill, there was a great BANG! on the ceiling of the office, which mage the oil lamp rattle.

“PEEVES!” Filch roared, flinging down the quill in a transport of rage. “I’ll have you this time, I’ll have you!”

And without a backward glance at the twins, Filch ran flat-footed from the office, Mrs. Norris streaking along beside him.

Peeves was the school poltergeist, a grinning, airborne menace who lived to cause havoc and distress Violet didn’t much like Peeves, but couldn’t help feeling grateful for his timing. Hopefully, whatever Peeves had done (and it sounded as though he’d wrecked something very big this time) would distract Filch from her and Harry.

“Should we go?” Violet whispered, glancing toward the open door.

“No way,” Harry said. “It’ll be worse if he comes back and we’re not here.”

Violet grimaced, but knew that he was right. She sank into a moth-eaten chair next to the desk and resigned herself to wait. She was startled then, when right after warning her to stay out of trouble, Harry reached out and plucked something straight off of Filch’s desk.

“What are you doing?” she hissed, sitting up at once.

“I’m just looking!” said Harry, shushing her. “With luck we’ll never end up back in here — might as well snoop.”

“You’re terrible,” Violet told him, but budged up to get a look at what he’d found. It was a large, glossy, purple envelope with silver lettering on the front, which read:

 

_ KWIKSPELL _

_ A Correspondence Course in Beginner’s Magic _

 

Inside the envelope was a sheaf of fine parchment. More curly silver writing on the front page said:

 

_ Feel out of step in the world of modern magic? Find yourself making excuses not to perform simple spells? Ever been taunted for your woeful wandwork? _

_ There is an answer! _

 

_ Kwikspell is an all-new, fail-safe, quick-result, easy-learn course. Hundreds of witches and wizards have benefited from the Kwikspell method! _

 

_ Madam Z. Nettles of Topsham writes: _

_ “I have no memory for incantations and my potions were a family joke! Now, after a Kwikspell Course, I am the center of attention at parties and friends beg for the recipe of my Scintillation Solution!” _

 

_ Warlock D.J. Prod of Didsbury says: _

_ “My wife used to sneer at my feeble charms, but one month your fabulous Kwikspell course and I succeeded in turning her into a yak! Thank you, Kwikspell!” _

 

Fascinated, Harry and Violet thumbed through the rest of the envelopes contents. Why on earth did Filch want a Kwikspell course? Did this mean he wasn’t a proper wizard? The twins were just reading “Lesson One: Holding Your Wand (Some Useful Tips)” when shuffling footsteps outside told them Filch was coming back. Stuffing the parchment back into the envelope, Harry threw it back onto the desk just as the door opened.

Filch was looking triumphant.

“That vanishing cabinet was extremely valuable!” he was saying gleefully to Mrs. Norris. “We’ll have Peeves out this time, my sweet —”

His eyes fell on Violet, then on Harry, and then darted to the Kwikspell envelope, which Violet realized too late, was lying two feet away from where it had started.

Filch’s pasty face went brick red. Violet braced herself for a tidal wave of fury. Filch hobbled across to his desk, snatched up the envelope, and threw it into a drawer.

“Have you — did you read — ?” he sputtered.

“No,” said Harry and Violet together, lying quickly.

Filch’s knobbly hands were twisting together.

“If I thought you’d read my private — not that it’s mine — for a friend — be that as it may — however —”

Violet was staring at him, alarmed; Filch had never looked madder. His eyes were popping, a tic was going in one of his pouchy cheeks, and the tartan scarf didn’t help.

“Very well — go — and don’t breathe a word, either of you — not that — however, if you didn’t read — go now, I have to write up Peeve’s report — go —”

With a quick glance at one another, amazed at their luck, Harry and Violet sped out of the office, up the corridor, and back upstairs. Violet really ought to have gone down to the Slytherin common room, but she was so preoccupied keeping up with Harry that it didn’t even occur to her. Besides, to escape Filch’s office without punishment was probably some kind of of school record.

“Harry! Harry! Did it work?”

Nearly Headless Nick came gliding out of a classroom. Behind him, Violet and Harry could see the wreckage of a large black-and-gold cabinet that appeared to have been dropped from a great height.

“I persuaded Peeves to crash it right over Filch’s office,” said Nick eagerly. “Thought it might distract him —”

“Was that you?” said Harry gratefully. “Yeah, it worked, we didn’t even get detention! Thanks, Nick!”

“Thank you, Sir Nicholas!” Violet said, causing Nearly Headless Nick’s chest to puff out with glee.

They set off up the corridor together. Nearly Headless Nick, Violet noticed, was still holding Sir Patrick’s rejection letter.

“I wish there was something we could do for you about the Headless Hunt,” Harry said.

Nearly Headless Nick stopped in his tracks and Violet walked right through him. She wished she hadn’t; it was like stepping through an icy shower.

“But there  _ is _ something you could do for me,” said Nick excitedly. “Harry — Violet — would I be asking too much — but no, you wouldn’t want —”

“What is it?” said Violet.

“Well, this Halloween will be my five hundredth deathday,” said Nearly Headless Nick, drawing himself up and looking dignified.

“Oh,” said Violet, not sure whether she should look sorry or happy about this. “Right.”

“I’m holding a party down in one of the roomier dungeons. Friends will be coming from all over the country. It would such an  _ honor _ if you would attend. Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger would be most welcome, too, of course — and any friends of yours would of course be welcome as well, Violet — but I daresay you’d rather go to the school feast?”

“No,” said Harry quickly, “We’ll come —”

“We will?” Violet said incredulously — she’d rather been looking forward to the Halloween feast this year, and to tasting all the pies and pasties that Hagrid’s magnificent pumpkins were sure to become a part of. But Harry was giving her a fiercely pointed look, so Violet cleared her throat and amended, “Of course. We will of  _ course _ come to your party, Sir Nicholas.”

“Oh, my dears! The Potter twins at my deathday party! And” — he hesitated, looking excited — “do you think you could  _ possibly _ mention to Sir Patrick how  _ very _ frightening and impressive you find me?”

“Of — of course,” said Harry.

Nearly Headless Nick beamed at them.

 

“A deathday party?” said Cassius keenly when Violet had at last said goodbye to Harry and joined him and Tracey in the common room. “I bet there aren’t many living people who can say they’ve been to one of those — it’ll be fascinating!”

“Why would anyone want to celebrate the day they died?” said Tracey, who was half- way through her Transfiguration homework and grumpy. “It all sounds awfully depressing to me . . .”

The windows looking outward beneath the lake were practically black, with the occasional glimpse of something silvery gliding past in the distance, but inside all looked bright and cheerful. The firelight glowed over the numerous high-backed chairs and low sofas where people sat reading, talking, doing homework or, in the case of Adrian Pucey and Graham Montague, trying to figure out what would happen if you fed a Filibuster firework to a salamander. Pucey, a fourth year and member of the Slytherin Quidditch team, had “rescued” the bright orange, fire-dwelling creature from a Care of Magical Creatures class and it was now smoldering gently on a table surrounded by a knot of curious people.

Violet was at the point of telling Tracey and Cassius about Filch and the Kwikspell course when the salamander suddenly whizzed into the air, emitting loud sparks and bangs as it whirled wildly around the room. The sight of Gemma bellowing herself hoarse at Pucey and Montague, the spectacular display of tangerine stars showering from the salamander’s mouth, and its escape into the fire, with accompanying explosions, drove both Filch and the Kwikspell envelope from Violet’s mind.

 

By the time Halloween arrived, Violet was resenting Harry’s rash promise that they would attend the deathday party. The rest of the school was happily anticipating their Halloween feat; the Great Hall had been decorated with the usual live bats, Hagrid’s vast pumpkins had been carved into lanterns large enough for three men to sit in, and there were rumors that Dumbledore had booked a troupe of dancing skeletons for the entertainment.

“He’s so  _ stupid _ ,” Violet muttered angrily, thinking of her brother as she tightened the stark black ribbon she’d decided to affix to the end of her plait. “Why does he always have to drag me into it, too?”

At seven o’clock, Violet, Cassius, and Tracey walked straight past the doorway to the packed Great Hall, which was glittering invitingly with gold plates and candles, and directed their steps instead toward the dungeons on the other side of the entrance hall. Harry and his friends were waiting by the staircase for them, everyone but Hermione looking as miserable as Violet felt.

The passageway leading to nearly Headless Nick’s party had been lined with candles, too, though the effect was far from cheerful: These were long, thin, jet-black tapers, all burning bright blue, casting a dim, ghostly light even over their own living faces. The temperature dropped with every step they took. As Violet shivered and drew her robes tightly around herself, she heard what sounded like a thousand fingernails scraping an enormous blackboard.

“Is that supposed to be  _ music _ ?” Ron whispered. They turned a corner and saw Nearly Headless Nick standing at a doorway hung with black velvet drapes.

“My dear friends,” he said mournfully. “Welcome, welcome . . . so pleased you could come . . .”

He swept off his plumed had and bowed them inside.

It was an incredible sight. The dungeon was full of hundreds of pearly-white, translucent people, mostly drifting around a crowded dance floor, waltzing to the dreadful, quavering sound of thirty musical saws, plays by an orchestra on a raised, black-draped platform. A chandelier overhead blazed midnight-blue with a thousand more black candles. Their breath rose in a mist before them; it was like stepping into a freezer.

“Shall we have a look around?” Harry suggested.

“Careful not to walk through anyone,” Tracey said nervously, and they split into two groups and set off around the edge of the dance floor. They passed a group of gloomy nuns, a ragged man wearing chains, and the Fat Friar, the cheerful Hufflepuff ghost, who was talking to a knight with an arrow sticking out of his forehead. Violet wasn’t surprised to see that the Bloody Baron, the gaunt, staring Slytherin ghost covered in silver bloodstains, was being given a wide berth by the other ghosts.

“This is  _ brilliant _ ,” Cassius said in awe, turning in place to look at all of the shimmering specters around them. “I’ve never seen so many ghosts in one place before. I didn’t even know they could  _ travel _ .”

“Have you met many ghosts before?” Violet asked.

“Well, not  _ met _ , but I’ve seen them. There’s an old castle near my family’s home that’s haunted — we used to go exploring there, me and my dad, before —”

“Oh, look, food!” said Tracey.

On the other side of the dungeon was a long table, also covered in black velvet. They approached it eagerly but next moment had stopped in their tracks, horrified. The smell was quite disgusting. Large, rotten fish were laid on handsome silver platters; cakes, burned charcoal-black, were heaped on salvers; there was a great maggoty haggis, a slab of cheese covered in furry green mold and, in pride of place, an enormous gray cake in the shape of a tombstone, with tar-like icing forming the words,

 

_ Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington _

_ Died 31st October, 1492 _

 

Violet watched, amazed, as a portly ghost approached the table, crouched low, and walked through it, his mouth held wide so that he passed through one of the stinking salmon.

“I wonder what would happen if you put your ring on in here,” Tracey whispered to Violet, hugging close to her arm for warmth. “Do you think they’d know you weren’t  _ really _ a ghost?”

“I don’t want to risk it,” said Violet, frowning, but it was a curious thought. When under the effects of her silver ring with its three, milky-white gemstones, her body became not only translucent but also insubstantial — she could pass through walls and doors and even other people, though it became very draining to stay inside of a solid object for too long. But she didn’t float like a proper ghost. Her feet stayed on the floor, making no noise when she stepped, but surely she would stand out as an oddity amongst these properly dead spirits.

“Don’t look now,” Cassius said, leaning down to mutter to Violet, “but it looks like your brother is having a chat with good old Peeves.”

Violet looked around in curiosity, finally finding Harry, Ron, and Hermione on the other side of the ballroom. They were indeed being harrassed by the school poltergeist — a funny little man with a wide, grinning face and mischievous black eyes. But Violet was far more interested in the ghost that had floated over to them as well — she looked much smaller than the others, and it was with slight alarm that Violet realized she was wearing a set of Hogwarts student robes.

“Who is that?” she asked, nodding in the direction of the ghost girl. Tracey groaned.

“ _ That’s _ Moaning Myrtle,” she said quietly. “She haunts the girl’s lavatory on the second floor. I made the mistake of going in there once — she’s very nosy. And she’s  _ always _ crying.”

They watched as Moaning Myrtle suddenly burst into tears and ran out of the dungeon through the far wall, Peeves chasing after her and cackling. Violet looked after her sadly.

“She looks so young . . .”

Suddenly the hall fell silent. The orchestra stopped playing, the crowd of ghosts became hushed, looking around in excitement as a loud hunting horn sounded.

Through the dungeon wall burst a dozen ghost horses, each ridden by a headless horseman. The assembly clapped wildly; Violet looked quickly to Nick across the hall, saw the sour expression on his pearly face, and quietly lowered her hands.

The horses galloped into the middle of the dance floor and halted, rearing and plunging. At the front of the pack was a large ghost who held his bearded head under his arm, from which position he was blowing the horn. The ghost leapt down, lifted his head high in the air so he could see over the crowd (everyone laughed) and strode over to Nearly Headless Nick, squashing his head back down onto his neck.

“Let’s head over,” Cassius said excitedly, pushing between Tracey and Violet and winding his way through the translucent gathering. The girls had no choice but to follow or be left behind. They arrived in the midst of another gale of ghostly laughter.

“I think,” Harry was saying as the three of them approached, “Nick’s very — frightening and — er —”

He looked desperately to Violet who, remembering her cue, went, “Oh! Terribly frightening!”

“Ha!” yelled the head on the floor. “Bet he asked you to say that!”

“If I could have everyone’s attention, it’s time for my speech!” said Nearly Headless Nick loudly, striding toward the podium and climbing into an icy blue spotlight.

“My late lamented lords, ladies, and gentlemen, it is my great sorrow . . .”

But nobody heard much more. Sir Patrick and the rest of the Headless Hunt had just started a game of Head Hockey and the crowd were turning to watch. Nearly Headless Nick tried vainly to recapture his audience, but gave up as Sir Patrick’s head went sailing past him to loud cheers.

Violet was very cold by now, not to mention hungry. Her stomach growled, loudly, and she shot a glare at Harry.

“I can’t stand much more of this,” Ron muttered, his teeth chattering, as the orchestra ground back into action and the ghosts swept back onto the dance floor.

“Let’s go,” Violet agreed.

They back toward the door, nodding and beaming at anyone who looked at them  — Cassius kept turning round for last, backward glances at the many guests — and a minute later were hurrying back up the passageway full of black candles.

“Pudding might not be finished yet,” said Tracey hopefully, leading the way toward the steps to the entrance hall.

They were about halfway up the passage when Harry stumbled to a halt, clutched at the stone wall for support, and looked wildly around him.

“Harry, what’re you —”

“It’s that voice again — shut up a minute —”

The rest of them stood there, silence and staring nervously at each other as Harry concentrated. He looked up suddenly, toward the dark ceiling above, and then began to run.

“This way,” he shouted, sprinting up the stairs into the entrance hall. The babble of talk from the Halloween feast was echoing out of the Great Hall.

“Stay here,” Violet told Tracey and Cassius, pushing them in the direction of the hall. “Get — get some food, if there’s any left. I’ll be back —”

Harry rushed up the marble staircase to the first floor, Ron and Hermione and Violet clattering behind him. And, behind her, she heard the stubborn footsteps of Cassius and Tracey as well.

“Harry,” said Ron, panting, “what’re we —”

“SHH!”

There was nothing they could do but watch Harry spin in place, looking around wildly, listening to something that nobody else could hear. His face blanched.

“It’s going to kill someone!” he shouted suddenly, and run up the next flight of steps three at a time, hurtling around the whole of the second floor, not stopping until they turned a corner into the last, deserted passage.

“Harry,  _ what _ was all that about?” said Hermione, wiping sweat off her brow. “I couldn’t hear anything  . . .”

But Tracey gave a sudden gasp, pointing down the corridor,

“ _ Look! _ ”

Something was shining on the wall ahead. They approached slowly, squinting through the darkness. Foot-high words had been daubed on the all between two windows, shimmering in the light cast by the flaming torches.

 

**THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.**

 

“What’s that thing — hanging underneath?” said Ron, a slight quiver in his voice.

As they edged nearer, Violet almost slipped — there was a large puddle of water on the floor; Harry and Cassius grabbed her, and they inched toward the message, eyes fixed on the dark shadow beneath it. All of them realized what it was at once, and leapt backward with a splash.

Mrs. Norris, the caretaker’s cat, was hanging by her tail from the torch bracket. She was stiff as a board, her eyes wide and starting.

For a few seconds, they didn’t movie. Then Cassius said, “Let’s get out of here.”

“Shouldn’t we try and help —” Hermione said nervously.

“Trust me,” said Cassius, his face pale and his mouth thin. “We don’t want to be found here.”

But it was too late. A rumble, as though of distant thunder, told them that the feast had just ended. From either end of the corridor where they stood came the sound of hundreds of feet climbing the stairs, and the loud, happy talk of well-fed people; next moment, students were crashing into the passage from both ends.

The chatter, the bustle, the noise died suddenly as the people in front spotted the hanging cat. The six of them stood, frozen, in the middle of the corridor, as silence fell among the mass of students pressing forward to see the grisly sight.

Then someone shouted through the quiet.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware! You’ll be next, Mudbloods!”

It was Draco Malfoy. He had pushed to the front of the crowd, his cold eyes alive, his usually bloodless face flushed, as he grinned at the sight of the hanging, immobile cat.


	9. The Writing on The Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

“What’s going on here? What’s going on?”

Attracted no doubt by Malfoy’s shout, Mr. Filch came shouldering his way through the crowd. Then he saw Mrs. Norris and fell back, clutching his face in horror.

“My cat! My cat! What’s happened to Mrs. Norris?” he shrieked.

And his popping eyes fell on Harry.

“ _ You _ !” he screeched. “ _ You _ ! You’ve murdered my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll —”

“ _ Argus _ !”

Dumbledore had arrived on the scene, followed by a number of other teachers. In seconds, he had swept past Harry, Violet and the others and detached Mrs. Norris from the torch bracket.

“Come with me, Argus,” he said to Filch. “You too, Mr. and Miss Potter, and the rest.”

Lockhart stepped forward eagerly.

“My office is nearest, Headmaster — just upstairs — please feel free —”

“Thank you, Gilderoy,” said Dumbledore.

The silent crowd parted to let them pass. Lockhart, looking excited and important, hurried after Dumbledore; so did Professors McGonagall and Snape.

As they entered Lockhart’s darkened office there was a flurry of movement across the walls; Violet saw several of the Lockharts in the pictures dodging out of sight, their hair in rollers. The real Lockhart lit the candles on his desk and stood back. Dumbledore laid Mrs. Norris on the polished surface and began to examine her. Harry and Violet exchanged tense looks with each other and their friends, sinking backward outside the pool of candlelight, watching.

The tip of Dumbledore’s long, crooked nose was barely an inch from Mrs. Norris fur. He was looking at her closely through his half-moon spectacles, his long fingers gently prodding and poking. Professor McGonagall was bent almost as close, her eyes narrowed. Snape loomed behind them, half in shadow, wearing an inscrutable expression. He looked to Violet as though he were puzzling over something.

“It was definitely a curse that killed her — probably the Transmogrifian Torture — I’ve seen it used many times, so unlucky I wasn’t there, I know the very countercurse that would have saved her . . .”

Lockhart’s comments were punctuated by Filch’s, dry, racking sobs. He was slumped in a chair by the desk, unable to look at Mrs. Norris, his face in his hands. Much as she detested Filch, Violet couldn’t help but feel terribly sorry him. She thought of Crookshanks, likely curled up asleep and waiting for her back in the dormitory, and her heart ached. 

Dumbledore was now muttering strange words under his breath and tapping Mrs. Norris with his wand but nothing happened: She continued to look as though she had been recently stuffed.

“. . . I remember something very similar happening in Ouagadougou,” said Lockhart, “a series of attacks, the full story’s in my autobiography, I was able to provide the townsfolk with various amulets, which cleared the matter up at once . . .”

The photographs of Lockhart on the walls were all nodding in agreement as he talked. One of them had forgotten to remove his hair net.

At last Dumbledore straightened up.

“She’s not dead, Argus,” he said softly.

Lockhart stopped abruptly in the middle of counting the number of murders he had prevented.

“Not dead?” choked Filch, looking through his fingers at Mrs. Norris. “But why’s she all — all still and frozen?”

“She has been Petrified,” said Dumbledore (“Ah! I thought so!” said Lockhart). “But how, I cannot say . . .”

“Ask  _ them _ !” shrieked Filch, turning his blotched and tearstained face to the twins.

“No second year could have done this,” said Dumbledore firmly. “It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced —”

“They did it, they did it!” Filch spat, his pouchy face purpling. “You saw what they wrote on the wall! They found — in my office — they know I’m a — I’m a —” Filch’s face worked horribly. “They know I’m a Squib!” he finished.

“We never  _ touched _ Mrs. Norris!” Harry said loudly, though Violet only shrank back further into the shadows, uncomfortably aware of everyone looking at them, including all the Lockharts on the walls. “And I don’t even know what a Squib  _ is _ .”

“Rubbish!” snarled Filch. “They saw my Kwikspell letter!”

“If I might speak, Headmaster,” said Snape from the shadows, and Violet’s eyes went wide. 

“The Potters and their friends may have simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time,” he said, glancing sidelong at the pair of them. “But we do have a set of suspicious circumstances here. Why were they in the upstairs corridor at all? Why weren’t they at the Halloween feast?”

Harry, Cassius, and Hermione all launched in an explanation about the deathday party “. . . there were hundreds of ghosts, they’ll tell you we were there —”

“But why not join the feast afterward?” said Snape, his black eyes glittering in the candlelight. “Why go up to that corridor?”

All of them looked at Harry.

“Because — because —” Harry said, and Violet desperately hoped he was planning to tell Professor Dumbledore about the cruel, bodiless voice no one but he could hear. Instead, he came up with, “because we were tired and wanted to go to bed.”

“And what about  _ my _ students?” Snape asked, his gaze focusing on Violet, Tracey, and Cassius, who all immediately found other places to look. “Last I was aware, the Slytherin common room is  _ down _ in the dungeons, not  _ up _ the stairs.”

“Violet just wanted to say goodnight,” Harry blurted, before Violet could even open her mouth. “We’re very — er — close.”

“Is that so?” Snape said softly. His eyes were boring into Violet. “Miss Potter? Would you care to offer your own explanation?”

“I — I was following Harry,” she said quietly, trying very hard not to meet Snape’s piercing gaze, “b-because —”

Violet risked a glance at Harry. She  _ wanted _ to tell the truth. If there was something wrong then surely Professor Dumbledore or McGonagall would be able to help him, or at the very least find the source of the voice. But Harry was staring straight at her as well; he gave a small, desperate shake of his head.

“Because I wanted a hug before bed,” Violet mumbled, and looked at the floor. She heard Snape sigh.

“So you were all going to bed,” he said crisply, and Violet knew he didn’t believe that for a moment, “without any supper? I didn’t think ghosts provided food fit for living people at their parties.”

“We weren’t hungry,” said Ron loudly as his stomach gave a huge rumble.

Violet closed her eyes entirely so she didn’t have to see the looks on any of the professor’s faces. At this rate, they were all going to be expelled for blatant lying.

“I suggest, Headmaster,” said Snape’s voice, “that neither Potter is being entirely truthful. It might be a good idea if they were deprived of certain privileges until they are ready to tell us the whole story. Miss Potter is known to frequent the library, I believe — a ban should suffice.”

It really didn’t take much to make Violet start crying, and normally this punishment would exactly the sort of this to do it; only she was far too shocked.

“As for Mr. Potter,” Snape continued, turning a nasty smirk toward Harry, “I personally feel he should be taken off the Gryffindor Quidditch team until he is ready to be honest.”

“Really, Severus,” said Professor McGonagall sharply, “I see no reason to  _ deprive _ these children of anything. This cat wasn’t hit over the head with a book of a broomstick. There is no evidence at all that the Potters have done anything wrong.”

Dumbledore was giving Harry a searching look.

“Innocent until proven guilty, Severus,” he said firmly.

Snape looked furious. So did Filch.

“My cat has been Petrified!” he shrieked, his eyes popping. “I want to see some  _ punishment _ !”

“We will be able to cure her, Argus,” said Dumbledore patiently. “Professor Sprout recently managed to procure some Mandrakes. As soon as they have reached their full size, I will have a potion made that will revive Mrs. Norris.”

“I’ll make it,” Lockhart butted in. “I must have done it a hundred times. I could whip up a Mandrake Restorative Draught in my sleep —”

“Excuse me,” said Professor Snape icily. “But I believe I am the Potions master at this school.”

There was a very awkward pause.

“You may go,” Dumbledore said to the group of them.

“I will escort my students,” Snape said sharply, “to ensure that they successfully find their way without  _ detour. _ ”

Violet, Tracey, and Cassius all shared nervous looks. However, as none of the other teachers protested, they had no choice but to follow after Professor Snape as he billowed out of Lockhart’s office.

The three of them walked in silence down the stairs, trying to keep up with the brisk pace set by Professor Snape. The second floor corridor was still a horror to behold — while the water had been cleaned from the floor, the horrible message still glistened on the stone wall. Violet kept her eyes down. She couldn’t bear to look at it again.

Snape led them all the way down the marble steps, through the entrance hall, and down into the Slytherin dungeons.

“ _ Lex talionis _ ,” Professor Snape said, and the concealed doorway into their House common room appeared and silently swung open. Cassius ducked quickly inside, followed by Tracey, but when Violet tried to pass through the door she was stopped by a black-clad arm blocking her path.

“Hold a moment, Potter,” said Professor Snape. “Let’s have a word.”

Violet stepped away from the door, which shut silently behind her. To her, it felt like the sealing of a tomb. Professor Snape was looking down at her with such intensity that Violet was sure he could see right through her into the corridor behind, as surely as if she was hidden beneath Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.

“Is there anything you would like to tell me, Miss Potter?” Snape said softly, and it was the softness that told Violet she was really in trouble. She’d heard him use that tone before tearing a student apart in class, and had no desire whatsoever for that level of ire to be turned on her. But now, alone in the empty corridor with nowhere to run, it seemed she had little choice but to bear the brunt on her own.

Professor Snape took a deep breath as Violet shook her head.

“I notice that your brother has a measure of influence over you,” he said slowly. “Upstairs, it was clear to me that you wanted to speak up, yet a single look from him silenced you. I understand such . . .  _ loyalty _ , and acknowledge that it has its place. However — this is a very serious situation, Potter. And whatever it is you are holding back, however insignificant you may think it is, I would be very interested to hear it.”

Violet blinked rapidly as she stared down at Professor Snape’s shoes, determined not to let him see her crying again. It had become something of a joke amongst her classmates, started of course by Draco Malfoy, that all it took to make Potter start crying was a stiff breeze in her direction. Harry had never made her feel badly for crying — but if it was a sign of weakness or a trait worthy of ridicule, then Violet was determined to stamp it out at all costs.

“We really were at the deathday party,” she started, her voice very small and watery. “But it was cold, and we were hungry so we l-left. And then Harry . . .”

Violet bit the inside of her cheek. The look Harry had shot her in Lockhart’s office flashed through her mind, the pleading in his eyes for her to keep her mouth shut.

“He what?” Snape asked, inclining his head to look more closely at her. Again, Violet averted her gaze. She didn’t like the way his eyes looked in the torchlight — black and hollow.

“He said he heard a voice talking about killing somebody,” Violet said in a rush, before she could stop herself. “He heard it before during detention with Lockhart, and then he heard it again tonight, leaving the ghost party.”

“What exactly did this voice say, Miss Potter?” Snape said, his voice much sharper than it had been before. Tears were sliding freely down her cheeks now.

“He said — he said it wanted to rip and — and tear — and to let it kill him.”

“Did  _ you _ hear this voice?”

“No, sir.”

“Did  _ anyone _ else hear this voice, Mr. Weasley or Miss Granger?”

“N-no, sir.”

Snape was quiet for a long moment. Violet could hear her own heartbeat hammering in her chest.

“Do you believe your brother was truly hearing something the rest of you could not,” Professor Snape said, clearly choosing his words carefully, “or could he have been lying?”

“No,” said Violet at once, jerking her head and causing teardrops to drip from her chin. “No, we don’t —” She took a deep breath and let it come out, slow and shaky. “Harry doesn’t lie to me, sir.”

In that long stretch of time, as Snape pondered what she had told him and Violet processed everything that had just come out of her mouth, a terrible fear wrapped it’s icy fingers around her rabbit-heart and began to squeeze it tightly. Harry would be so angry with her. She had betrayed his trust and he would be hurt and upset and would maybe never trust her again. And if she’d said too much or let on that something was wrong with Harry then it would be  _ her _ fault if they took him away or made him leave. If Harry was crazy — which he  _ wasn’t _ , Violet didn’t believe that for a moment — and she was the one who got him in trouble, then she would never be able to live with herself. She would have to tell him she was sorry, that she’d only done it because she’d thought it was for the best. That is, if Harry would even speak to her again.

“Thank you, Miss Potter,” said Professor Snape from right in front her, and Violet flinched as she was pulled from her thoughts. “Your honesty is appreciated. It would have been  _ more _ appreciated had you come forward when first pressed, however . . .”

Violet opened her mouth to say ‘sorry,’ but no sound came out. Only a tight, strangled breath that caught in the back of her throat.

“Go to bed, Potter,” Professor Snape said, not unkindly, finally removing his arm from in front of the doorway. “I’m tired of catching you in corridors that you have no place being. See that it doesn’t happen again.  _ Lex talionis _ .”

As the common room door slid open, Violet let out a small squeak and darted inside. Cassius and Tracey were waiting near the door and came at once to ask her what had happened, but Violet pushed straight past them and headed for her dormitory.

“Enemies of the Heir, beware!” called Malfoy’s voice from in front of the fire, followed by a chorus of ugly laughter.

Violet was sobbing before she even got the door closed.

 

The next morning, Violet expected to see no sign of Harry. She thought surely he would have been dragged off in the night, locked away in the infirmary while they asked him questions and ran tests and poked and prodded and did all sorts of horrible things to find out if her were crazy or not.

But there he was, sitting at the Gryffindor table next to Ron and Hermione, hunched over a bowl of porridge. He didn’t  _ look _ any worse for wear — he was smiling and talking to his friends and Housemates. He wasn’t hurt. He wasn’t acting strange. Violet kept waiting for the other shoe to drop; a professor to walk up and make Harry follow them away, or a letter to arrive and land in his lap, but there was nothing. Just Harry, safe and sound.

 

For a few days, the school could talk of little else but the attack on Mrs. Norris. Filch kept it fresh in everyone’s mind by pacing the spot where she had been attacked, as though he thought the attacker might come back. Violet had seen him scrubbing the message on the wall with Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover, but to no effect; the words still gleamed as brightly as ever on the stone. When Filch wasn’t guarding the scene of the crime, he was skulking red-eyed through the corridors, lunging out at unsuspecting students and trying to put them in detention for things like “breathing loudly” and “looking happy.”

Ginny Weasley seemed very disturbed by Mrs. Norris’ fate. According to Ron, she was a great cat lover. Violet had only seen her from a distance, however, walking between classes, white-faced and nervous looking. Violet wanted to speak to her, to ask Ginny if she was alright, but there never seemed to be a moment of quiet for them to connect. Ginny was a first year  _ and _ a Gryffindor, which meant they shared no classes and were rarely in the same place at the same time. 

For the same reasons, it was getting harder to spend time with Cassius as well. He had few friends in his own year, and his elective courses (Care of Magical Creatures and Divination) were keeping him busier than they had last year. When they did have free time to spend together, it was during meals in the Great Hall and evenings in the Slytherin common room, both of which were hardly private places that weren’t fit to discuss what Violet had in mind.

“Come on,” Violet muttered to Tracey during lunch, stuffing a wrapped buttered roll into her pocket for later. Tracey, whose mouth was full of mashed potato, looked up at her in confusion.

“What are we doing?”

“I want to talk to Moaning Myrtle,” said Violet. Tracey immediately groaned.

“Violet,  _ please _ , she’s really miserable —”

“I know, that’s why I want to talk to her. Are you coming or not?”

With a great roll of her eyes, Tracey dramatically pushed half-full plate of food away from her and followed Violet out of the Great Hall, dragging her feet pointedly behind her. In the doorway, they were lucky enough to run into Cassius, who was just coming in from the grounds with grass stains on his robes.

“Oh, hi,” he said in surprise. “You didn’t have to wait for me, but that’s very —”

“We weren’t, we’re heading out,” Violet said, and his face went pink. “Come with, I want to talk to a ghost.”

“But I’m  _ hungry, _ ” Cassius whined. Violet shoved the buttered roll into his hands and grabbed his elbow, pulling him along behind her.

From Tracey, Violet knew that Moaning Myrtle liked to haunt the girl’s bathroom on the second floor, though she could often be found in other toilets as well. She didn’t like the thought of going back near the second floor corridor, but she would feel better about it with her friends — it was either go now, all together, or Violet would have to sneak out at night by herself. And while she’d been trying to be more brave (with some coaching from a bemused Gemma Farley), Violet didn’t quite feel up to talking to a ghost by herself in the middle of the night.

“I’ll keep watch,” said Cassius as they approached the doors.

“Why?” said Violet. “We’re allowed to be here, aren’t we?”

“ _ You’re _ allowed to be here,” he said, nodding at the sign on the door. “ _ You’re _ girls. The last thing I need is to be caught coming out of the girl’s loo with you two.”

“What’s wrong with us two?” said Tracey indignantly. Cassius just crossed his arms and leaned stubbornly against the wall. Violet, time conscious as she was, pushed right past him and stepped inside.

She’d never used this bathroom before — there was one in the dungeons and one on the third floor as well, both of which were more convenient than coming here. It was just as well, really. It was the gloomiest, most depressing bathroom Violet had ever set foot in. Under a large, cracked, and spotted mirror were a row of chipped sinks. The floor was damp and reflected the dull light given off by the stubs of a few candles, burning low in their holders; the wooden doors to the stalls were flaking and scratched and one of them was dangling off its hinges. Faintly, the sound of crying could be heard.

“Hello?” Violet called, taking another few steps into the room. Tracey followed nervously behind, shutting the door quietly behind them. “Hello, I’m looking for Moaning Myrtle?”

The crying cut off in a sharp sob. Violet jumped as the stall door nearest her slammed open and there, hovering above the back of the toilet with arms crossed over her chest was the short, transparent form of the dead girl Violet had seen at the deathday party. She was no longer weeping — in fact she looked furious.

“ _ Moaning _ Myrtle?” the girl said, floating slowly toward her. “ _ Miserable _ Myrtle.  _ Maybe-She’s-Better-Off-Dead _ Myrtle, is that who you’re looking for? And who are  _ you _ supposed to be, anyways?”

“S-sorry,” Violet stammered, taking a quick step backward. “I didn’t — I mean, I didn’t know what else to call you —”

“Oh, Moaning Myrtle is fine,” she said, her tone suddenly brighter. “It’s what everybody calls me, you know. When they even bother to speak to me.”

She burst into tears again, then turned and dove through the wooden wall and into the next stall.

“I tried to warn you,” Tracey muttered.

But Violet was determined. She was missing out on a meal to try and have this conversation and by Merlin she was going to have it. Screwing up her courage, Violet walked over to the next stall and yanked the door open herself.

“Excuse me,” she said to the ghost, who was now upside down and crying into the toilet, “but I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. My name is Violet Potter, I saw you at the deathday party, and —”

“Why were  _ you _ at that horrible party?” Myrtle interrupted. “ _ You’re _ not  _ dead _ .”

“Sir Nicholas invited us,” said Violet mildly. Moaning Myrtle glared suspiciously at her, slowly rotating in the air until she was right-side up.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Potter. Er — Violet Potter.”

“Do you know  _ Harry _ Potter?”

“He’s — he’s my brother, so I suppose I know him?”

Myrtle laughed suddenly, girlish and cheeky. The tears were gone.

“He’s very handsome,” she said coyly.

“Oh,” Violet said, taken aback. “He is?”

Myrtle nodded. Violet thought her translucent cheeks might have a bit more pigment to them.

“He came to visit me here, too,” said Moaning Myrtle, “with another boy, and that nosy Granger girl. I’ve never had so many visitors before. Usually when people come looking for me all they want to do is tease me and call me names and — and —”

Myrtle’s lower lip began to tremble and Violet feared she might start sobbing again.

“Harry doesn’t usually talk to other girls,” Violet said quickly, hoping to distract the ghost from her misery. “What did he come to see you about?”

“Oh, he had all sorts of boring questions,” said Myrtle. She drifted backward and down, until she appeared to be sitting on the back of the toilet. “They wanted to know about something that happened outside in the hall, after Peeves chased me away from the party. Something to do with a cat.”

“ _ Did _ you see anything?” Tracey said, speaking for the first time. Myrtle scrunched up her nose.

“I already told them,  _ no _ — I wasn’t paying attention. Peeves upset me so much I came in here and tried to  _ kill _ myself. Then, of course, I remembered that I’m — that I’m —”

She was looking dangerously teary again.

“How did you die, Myrtle?” Violet blurted suddenly, not knowing what else to possibly say to get her attention. And much to her amazement, it worked — Myrtle stopped crying at once. She looked at Violet in surprise, mouth hanging open as she floated in the cramped stall.

“How did I  _ die _ ?” she repeated softly. “Nobody’s ever wanted to talk to me about that before . . .”

“Never? But you were a student here when you — er — died, weren’t you?” Violet asked. “Didn’t the teachers want to know what happened to you?”

“Nobody  _ cared _ what happened to me,” Myrtle snapped suddenly. “It took them hours and  _ hours _ to find my body, you know — I was right there, where’s she’s standing —” She pointed a silvery finger at Tracey, who look down at her feet with wide eyes before leaping back several feet. “And then all they wanted to do was keep it quiet, pretend like everything was normal — some men from the Ministry came, but they didn’t talk to me, either. They probably all decided I’d killed myself.  _ Hoped _ that I’d killed myself.”

“But you  _ didn’t _ kill yourself,” Violet pressed. She took another good look at Myrtle, searching for any signs of a wound — bruises, blood, stains, anything. But unlike the other ghosts who bore clear signs of their demise, Myrtle looked perfectly clean and healthy.

“Of course I didn’t!” wailed Moaning Myrtle dramatically. “I  _ said _ I would, but I never planned to actually  _ do _ it. I didn’t want to give Olive Hornby the satisfaction of thinking she was the reason I’d died, but oh, she got that in the end — she was the one that drove me in here, with her bullying. It  _ was _ her fault that I died and I made sure she remembered that for the rest of her pathetic life.”

“But how did it happen?” Violed asked, desperately. “Who killed you, Myrtle?”

Again, just as suddenly as she had before, Myrtle deflated and went silent. She stared, blinking slowly in Violet’s direction, but not  _ at _ her — as though she was looking through her body to her own reflection in the cracked mirror behind.

“I . . . don’t know. . .”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, I remember dying,” she said, still looking very far away. “I remember being alive one moment and then . . . not. But I didn’t see him.”

“Him?” Tracey said. “How do you know it was a boy?”

“I heard him talking,” Myrtle said slowly. “He said something funny. A different language, it must have been. I was upset, and he wasn’t meant to be in here, so I opened the door to tell him to  _ go away _ and then — then I died.”

The bathroom was silent. Only the faint sound of dripping water and Violet and Tracey’s breathing could be heard while Myrtle stared off into the distance. Pearly, translucent tears were streaming down her cheeks. Violet wanted to comfort her, wished that there was some way she could, but knew that if she were to reach out and pat Myrtle shoulder her hand would pass straight through. Unless —

“You alright in there?”

Violet jumped almost a foot in the air as Cassius voice rang out from the doorway, echoing loudly off the tiles.

“We’re fine, go away!” Violet yelled back.

“But lunch is nearly over,” he said. Suddenly Moaning Myrtle shot up from the toilet seat, zipping right through Violet and leaving her gasping with the sudden cold. A moment later Cassius let out a small, high-pitched scream. The girls turned quickly back to the entrance and found Myrtle’s body sticking halfway through the door, her legs and bottom still in the bathroom while her arms and face were out in the hall, shouting at Cassius.

“You’re not allowed in here!” she shrieked. “Spying on us, awful, nasty boy! Get out, get out!  _ Get out _ !”

“Move!” Violet hollered, shoving Cassius away from the door as Moaning Myrtle began to cry and wail, dashing in and out of the door, screaming at them to leave. They ran and ran, through the second floor corridor, down the marble staircase, and out into the entrance hall where all the other students were just starting to stream out now that lunch was over. Cassius was white faced, the hem of Tracey’s robes were damp, and Violet was shaking and out of breath — but they had gotten away from Moaning Myrtle and her tantrum, and finally Violet had some answers to the questions that had troubled her for the past week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the continued comments and support, it really means so much! <3


	10. The Rogue Bludger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Since talking with Myrtle, Violet had spent all possible free time in the library searching for clues about what could have caused the girl’s death. After some digging through old copies of the  _ Daily Prophet _ she’d been able to find an article about the death of a student many years earlier, in 1943 — Myrtle Warren, aged 13. There was no picture, but Violet was certain there was only one person it could be. Only there wasn’t a cause of death listed anywhere. Myrtle had made very clear that she was  _ killed _ , but the paper only reported that she had  _ died. _ No arrests were made in connection to the murder — or at least none that Violet had been able to find yet.

Nor had she been able to get back into the girl’s bathroom to talk to Myrtle again. After their conversation and Cassius’ interruption, the ghost had apparently been so upset she opened all the taps and flooded the whole corridor again. Now, hanging on the door was a prominent notice reading “OUT OF ORDER — NO ENTRY.”

The one time that Violet had tried to sneak back in she was told off by Percy Weasley, who stepped out from the shadows and very formally warned her that if she proceeded he would have to give her a detention.

The morning after her talk with Myrtle, Violet had slipped over the Gryffindor table and tried to tell everything she’d found out to Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They had already been to see Myrtle themselves, and unfortunately only wanted to complain about how annoying they’d found the ghost girl. It was during this conversation that they shared a suspicion the three of them had been cultivation, and the very notion of it made Violet’s stomach turn over: what if Draco Malfoy was the Heir of Slytherin?

“It’s possible,” Harry muttered, keeping his voice low. “His whole family’s been in Slytherin, haven’t they? They could easily be Slytherin’s descendants.”

“They could’ve had the key to the Chamber of Secrets for centuries!” said Ron. “Handing it down, father to son —”

“And you’ve heard the way he talks,” Hermione said quietly. “About blood purity and what it means to be a ‘real’ wizard. Slytherin is all about that sort of thing.”

“No we’re not,” said Violet, frowning. “Nobody  _ ever _ talks about any of that except for Malfoy. There are plenty of half bloods and Muggleborns in my House, too, not that anyone really talks about it — it doesn’t matter to anybody but people like Malfoy.”

Hermione looked slightly stunned. The thought of a Muggleborn Slytherin had likely never occured to her — nor to Harry or Ron, who were exchanging skeptical glances. Violet was struck, and not for the first time, about how many prejudices and misconceptions her brother and his friends seemed to have about the House she’d been sorted into. After the last big fight with Harry she’d thought the matter had been resolved, but maybe the issue ran deeper. Malfoy and his cronies certainly weren’t helping anything.

“Violet,” Hermione said suddenly, her eyes brightening, “can I ask you a favor?”

“Oh — er, I suppose?” said Violet, “I don’t know how much help I can be —”

But Hermione had whirled around and grabbed her bag from the floor, rummaging frantically until she produced a piece of parchment, which she thrust toward Violet; it looked to be a permission slip of some sort.

“Erm . . . what do you want me to do with this?” she asked.

“I need you to get Snape to sign it,” Hermione said, and Violet’s eyebrows shot up.

“Why don’t you just have him sign it yourself?”

“He likes you, better than anyone in our year — except for Malfoy, I suppose. If you ask him to sign it, he’s guaranteed to say yes.”

Her tone was very matter-of-fact, as if this was all common knowledge — worse, Ron and Harry were nodding along. It was Violet’s turn to feel stunned.

“I don’t know about that,” she said, recalling all the mortifying times Professor Snape had pulled her aside and given her a talking to, but the others seemed to have very different perspective on things.

“You’re at the top of his class,” Harry pointed out.

“Snape’s always using your potions for examples of how terrible the rest of are,” Ron said enthusiastically.

“And remember the other day when he complimented your chopping with the bitterroot, and even told Malfoy he could learn a thing or two from you?” said Hermione.

Violet’s face was feeling very hot. She did remember him saying that her slices were nice and even . . . but all of that was just because she was a good student — Violet worked hard and studied and turned her homework in on time. She followed Professor Snape’s advice and the instructions he wrote on the blackboard. He didn’t snap at her the way he did with Harry, but that’s because Harry was . . . well,  _ Harry  _ — and a Gryffindor to boot. Snape rarely took points from his own House if he didn’t have to. But still, that didn’t have anything to do with  _ her _ .

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still looking at her expectantly, so Violet ducked her still blushing face behind the permission slip and tried to read it more closely.

“ _ Moste Potente Potions?” _ she read aloud. “Why is that familiar . . .”

Violet narrowed her eyes at Hermione.

“That’s the book Snape was talking about last week — it’s supposed to be full of all sorts of controversial potions and poisons. What do  _ you _ want with it?”

“Nothing!” Hermione said, far too quickly. “I mean — it only sounded so interesting — and I, er, love reading —”

“We want to brew a Polyjuice Potion,” Harry bluntly, “so we can get into the Slytherin common room and make Malfoy confess to being the Heir of Slytherin without him realizing it’s us.”

Ron whacked Harry on the arm and Hermione looked furious with him, but Violet was too busy trying not to laugh.

“You’re mad,” she said, grinning at the three of them. “D’you really think you could do that? And that I would  _ help _ you? Nobody from any other House has gotten into our common room for nearly seven centuries, Harry — I’m not going to just let you waltz inside.”

“But this is important!” Harry said earnestly. “We’ve got to talk to Malfoy and make him confess, and even he’s not stupid enough to do that out in the open. It’s got to be in the common room.”

“ _ You’re _ stupid,” Violet said, smiling fondly at her outraged brother. “Harry — I’m in Slytherin, remember? I can go into the common room any time I want.” She turned to Hermione, still grinning, though the other girl didn’t look very happy at all. “And you — you’re brilliant enough to come up with  _ Polyjuice Potion _ of all things, but did you even think of just asking  _ me _ to talk to Malfoy?”

The look that Harry, Ron, and Hermione shared between each other said plainly that no, none of them had even considered such a thing. Ron’s mouth was hanging open with the stunning realization, and Hermione looked as though she were mentally kicking herself. Violet couldn’t stop laughing.

“What was that all about?” Tracey asked as Violet sat down beside her at the Slytherin table. She told her and Cassius what Harry and his friends had planned, still smiling at the ridiculousness of it all.

“All that, just to have a conversation with Malfoy!” she exclaimed. “Honestly, if he really were the Heir of Slytherin don’t you think we’d have heard him bragging about it by now? I mean, I suppose his whole family’s been in Slytherin, but the Heir? Him?”

“He’s not,” Cassius said suddenly. He was hunched over his plate of bacon, French toast, and scrambled eggs. “The Malfoys aren’t related to Slytherin at all. And as far as I know there  _ aren’t _ any Slytherin heirs — the whole line died out ages ago.”

“How do you know that?” Violet asked, surprised. Cassius only shrugged.

“Pure blood families take their lineage seriously. We keep track of each other’s families, too. For, I dunno, breeding purposes?”

“Your family is pure blood?” Tracey asked, and he nodded.

“Yeah, I suppose. Not _ pure _ pure blood, y’know — we’re not ‘sacred twenty-eight’ or anything, but I think we’re respectable by — er — blood standards.”

“Sacred twenty-eight?” Violet asked. “What’s that?”

Cassius, who had just shoved a forkful of eggs into his mouth, grimaced.

“S’a list,” he managed to get out. He took a few moments to chew aggressively and swallow his food. “My dad told me about it — some bloke made a list of all the wizarding families with the ‘purest’ bloodlines. No Muggles or Squibbs for ages and ages, I think. Malfoys are on it, but so are the Weasleys, if that tells you anything. But it only listed active bloodlines, and Slytherin wasn’t on it.”

“Why would your dad teach you about something like that?” Tracey asked, her nose slightly scrunched. Again, Cassius shrugged.

“Guess it mattered to him,” he said tersely. He didn’t say more than that. Violet stared down at her plate, thinking.

“So there’s  _ no _ way Malfoy could be Slytherin’s Heir?” she asked.

“Nope,” said Cassius.

“So I don’t have to go and talk to him?”

“Not unless you really want to.”

“I do not.”

Cassius grinned at her, cheeks bulging slightly.

“Then don’t. Problem solved.”

 

Harry wasn’t pleased when Violet passed the news on to him — she first had to convince him that Cassius was a trustworthy source of information to begin with, which was another frustrating trial, but at the end of the conversation he’d agreed that the theory of the Heir of Slytherin being Draco Malfoy was unlikely.

Violet suspected he might have argued about it a bit more if he hadn’t been so preoccupied by the upcoming Quidditch match.

It was the first game of the season, Slytherin versus Gryffindor, and Marcus Flint had been absolutely insufferable. He was convinced that there was no way for them to lose with the new brooms from Malfoy’s father — so convinced, in fact, that the Slytherin team had done very little training outside of flying around, getting used to the speed of the Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones. Whenever Violet was in earshot, Malfoy would brag loudly about his plan to leave Harry in his dust — something that she, unlike Harry, wasn’t worried about at all. Professor McGonagall had seen Harry fly  _ once _ and put him on the team immediately; Malfoy only got in after his father paid for it. As far as she was concerned there wasn’t a comparison.

She joined the rest of the school on Saturday morning, marching down the Quidditch stadium. It was a muggy sort of day with a hint of thunder in the air. Tracey and Cassius joined her in their usual seat in the stands, glancing anxiously at the sky as it if were going to break open with rain at any moment. Violet cheered loudly as the two teams met in the middle of the field to shake hands — while the rest of her House cheered for their team, her cheers were only for Harry.

Madam Hooch’s whistle sounded and the fourteen players shot up into the air. Harry, so much smaller than all the others, soared high above the rest and settled into his usual patrol over the game, searching for the Snitch.

It quickly became clear that the Slytherins  _ were _ at advantage for speed — blurs of green and black sped across the pitch, making it almost impossible to tell who was who. But the Gryffindor team was holding their own so far, thanks in no small part, Violet suspected, to their team captain, Oliver Wood. A burly sixth year, Harry idolized him — he’d been training his team hard and it showed. Violet let out another cheer as Harry artfully dodged a Bludger that came pelting toward him. A moment later, one of the Weasley twins streaked past him after it and gave it a powerful whack toward one of the Slytherins.

Violet’s excitement turned to confusion, however, as the very same Bludger seemed to change direction in midair and shot straight for Harry again.

“That’s not supposed to happen, is it?” she muttered to Cassius.

“What? I thought it was a good pass,” he said, clearly not paying attention — his focus, along with most of the stands, was on the Quaffle being tossed back and forth between the players. Slytherin was currently in possession. Violet turned her eyes back on Harry.

It had started to rain; Harry was zipping wildly from one end of the field to another, shooting off at full speed and taking sharp turns in seemingly random directions. At first Violet thought he’d already spotted the Snitch — but a closer look and she could see a black speck speeding along behind him; a Bludger, which should not have been able to make chase.

“Something isn’t right,” Violet said — both Weasley twins were practically flanking Harry now, blocking him as much as they were helping to beat the Bludger away from his face.

“Look,” Tracey said, pointing to Wood, “they’re calling a time out.”

Violet stood on tiptoes to watch the Gryffindor team huddle together on the muddy grass. There was no chance at hearing anything from this distance, especially not with the whole crowd yelling and booing, but it was plain to see that Wood looked worried. Violet was certain they would stop the game to investigate the Bludger — but when Madam Hooch reached them all, a nod was given and they shot back into the air. This time the Weasleys stayed away from Harry. The Bludger, however, did not.

Violet clutched tight to Tracey’s arm as they watched the rest of the game. Harry was higher than Violet had ever seen him fly before; he looped and swooped, spiraled, zigzagged, and rolled, even flying upside down to avoid another fierce dive from the Bludger. There was laughter as more and more people started to notice Harry’s bizarre behavior, but Violet’s stomach was doing nearly as many flips as her brother.

She watched as Malfoy drew up in the air near Harry, calling out to him. Harry hung in the air, staring at Malfoy —

“ _ Look out! _ ” Violet screamed, too far to make any difference as the rogue Bludger slammed into Harry’s arm. She screamed again as he slid sideways on his broom, one knee crooked over it, his right arm dangling uselessly as he struggled to stay on. But instead of landing, Harry shot toward Malfoy. For a moment Violet thought he meant to tackle him off of his broom, sending them both careening to the ground to their deaths —

Violet let out a final scream as Harry let go of his broom with his remaining hand, reaching out — his broom stayed level as he gripped with only his legs — Violet’s focus narrowed to that single wooden stick hanging in the sky with her brother attached to it —

With a soft, splattering thud Harry hit the mud and rolled of hs broom. His right arm was hanging at a very strangle angle. His left raised into the air and there, gleaming in his fist, was the Golden Snitch.

And then he collapsed.

Violet streaked down the stands, shoving students and staff out of her way without care as she made a beeline for Harry.

“Move!” she demanded, squeezing through the thick crowd of worried Gryffindors. “Let me see him —  _ move! _ ”

Unfortunately, Violet was not the first to reach Harry. By the time she flung herself into the mud by his side, there was already another person kneeling over him. Dressed today in a pastel, seafoam green, Professor Lockhart was smiling down at Harry, wand at the ready.

“Don’t you touch him,” Violet said viciously, putting a hand on Harry’s chest to try and shield him from whatever Lockhart was about to do. Lockhart’s smile faltered only briefly in the face of the sudden rage of a small girl.

“Not to worry,” he said confidently, “it’s a simple charm, I’ve used it countless times —”

“Why can’t I go to the hospital wind?” said Harry through clenched teeth.

“I’ll take him,” Violet volunteered immediately. “Wait, just let me —”

But Lockhart was twirling his wand and a second later had directed it straight at Harry’s arm.

There was a dim yellow glow that spread from Harry’s elbow, up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips, and Violet watched in absolute horror as Harry’s whole seemed to deflate. His wrist sagged in Lockhart’s grasp, his hand flopping limply and without structure. The whole gathered crowd gasped as one, and little Colin Creevey began clicking away madly with his camera.

“Ah,” said Lockhart. “Yes. Well, that can sometimes happen. But the point is, the bones are no longer broken. That’s the thing to bear in mind. So, Harry, just toddle up to the hospital wind — ah, Mr. Weasley, Miss Potter, would you escort him? — and Madam Pomfrey will be able to — er — tidy you up a bit.”

Harry, who had squeezed his eyes shut in alarm as Lockhart had began working on him, finally turned his head and looked down at his right side. His face immediately went paler than Violet had ever seen it.

Lockhart hadn’t mended Harry’s bones. He had removed them.

 

Madam Pomfrey wasn’t at all pleased.

“You should have come straight to me!” she raged, holding the sad, limp remainder of what, half an hour before, had been a working arm. “I can mend bones in a second — but growing them back —”

“You will be able to, won’t you?” said Harry desperately.

“I’ll be able to, certainly, but it will be painful,” said Madam Pomfrey grimly, throwing Harry a pair of pajamas. “You’ll have to stay the night . . .”

Ron and Hermione waited outside the curtain drawn around Harry’s bed while Violet helped him into his pajamas. It took a while to stuff the rubbery, boneless arm into a sleeve.

“How can you stick up for Lockhart now, Hermione, eh?” they heard Ron say through the curtain as Violet pulled Harry’s limp fingers through the cuff. “If Harry had wanted deboning he would have asked.”

“Anyone can make a mistake,” said Hermione. “And it doesn’t hurt anymore, does it, Harry?”

“No,” said Harry, getting into bed. “But it doesn’t do anything else, either.”

As he swung himself onto the bed, his arm flapped pointlessly. Even looking at it made Violet’s stomach churn.

Ron, Hermione, and Madam Pomfrey came around the curtain. Madam Pomfrey was holding a large bottle of something labeled  _ Skele-Gro. _

“You’re in for a rough night,” she said, pouring out a steaming beakerful and handing it to Harry. “Regrowing bones is a nasty business.

So was taking Skele-Gro, apparently. Harry coughed and sputtered as it went down as though it were burning his throat. Still tut-tutting about dangerous sports and inept teachers, Madam Pomfrey retreated, leaving Violet and Harry’s friends to help him gulp down some water.

“We won, though,” said Ron, a grin breaking across his face. “That was some catch you made. Malfoy’s face . . . he looked ready to kill . . .”

“I want to know how he fixed that Bludger,” said Hermione darkly.

“It couldn’t have been him,” Violet said, frowning at the pair of them. “I’ve already told you, he’s got nothing to do with all this —”

“You’re standing up for  _ him _ now?” said Ron incredulously. “First Snape, of all people, and now Malfoy —”

“And I was right about Professor Snape, wasn’t I?” snapped Violet. “Malfoy’s an arrogant prat, but he’s not as clever as you lot keep giving him credit for.”

“You didn’t even talk to him, though,” Harry said, sounding more than a tad reproachful. “I know, I know — you trust Warrington. But he could be wrong, couldn’t he? After all that stuff we heard about Slytherin back in the day, that’s not exactly something you just tell anyone about, is it? Even for someone like Malfoy.”

“So what makes you think he’d even talk to me?” Violet said crossly. “We’re not friends, Harry — he hates me just as much as he hates you.”

“ _ Please _ ,” Harry begged. “Look, if he doesn’t confess, fine — I’ll drop it. But at least  _ try _ to get something out of him, Vi. For me?”

Violet glared at her brother, furious that he would even pull that card over something as silly as this. But the door of the hospital wing burst open at that moment, preventing her from calling him on it. Filthy and soaking wet, the rest of the Gryffindor team had arrived to see Harry.

“Unbelievable flying, Harry,” said George. “I’ve just seen Marcus Flint yelling at Malfoy. Something about having the Snitch on top of his head and not noticing. Malfoy didn’t seem too happy.”

They had brought cakes, sweets, and bottles of pumpkin juice; they gathered around Harry’s bed and were just getting started on what promised to be a good party when Madam Pomfrey came storming over, shouting, “This boy needs rest, he’s got thirty-three bones to regrow! Out! OUT!”

All of them were shooed from the hospital wing, Violet included, and Harry was left alone with nothing to distract him from the stabbing pains in his left arm.

“Hey,” Violet said, jogging up between Fred and George as they shuffled away toward Gryffindor tower. “Thanks for looking out for him out there — I saw you trying to keep that Bludger off him. You probably saved his life.”

“Aw, y’don’t have to thank us,” Fred said, wrapping a friendly around Violet’s shoulder. “We were only doing our job.”

“Speak for yourself,” said George, wrapping an arm around her other shoulder, so that Violet was comfortably sandwiched between the pair of them. “I like a bit of thanks now and again. So thank  _ you _ , Violet, and you’re welcome, for keeping you from going twinless for another day. Can’t guarantee what Harry’ll get himself into tomorrow, but for now you’ll just have to keep on putting up with him.”

Violet couldn’t help laughing. That was something she’d always been able to count on the Weasleys twins for; since last year, whenever things were going tough, they were the ones who were able to get her to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please do not ship Violet with Snape, she is twelve years old and i won't stand for it.


	11. The Bait and Switch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

It was, for once, silent in the Slytherin common room.

The silence was a long time coming. For most of the evening it was filled the angry grumbles of its Housemates, outraged by another humiliating loss to Gryffindor on the Quidditch pitch. Blame had been liberally passed around — from Flint, for not training his team properly, to Oliver Wood having too much time on the pitch with his own team, to the weather being foul, to the new brooms being too much for the more seasoned players to handle. And then, inevitably, the blame was shifted to Draco Malfoy.

Marcus Flint hadn’t let up on his young Seeker from the moment they stepped out of the pitch. Malfoy had not so much dropped the ball as he hadn’t even seen it in the first place; the Golden Snitch was a tiny, glimmering ball that zipped around the field, showing up one moment and disappearing the next. It was the Seeker’s job — their only job — to catch it and bring the match to an end. This was the position that Malfoy had been brought onto the team to play, and it was this task that he had failed at, spectacularly. 

In front of the whole of Slytherin House, he’d been dressed down and sneered at by the entire Slytherin team with not a single person coming to his defense. Crabbe and Goyle, usually such loyal bodyguards, didn’t make a single sound as Malfoy shrank under the brutal words of his captain. Nor, Violet noticed, did Pansy Parkinson, who had at one time accosted her and Tracey in their shared dormitory in retaliation for something Malfoy had only  _ accused _ her of doing to him. It would have been sad, and Violet might have even felt a bit sorry for Malfoy if she didn’t think he’d brought it on himself.

But the newfound, ringing silence brought an opportunity that Violet had been equal parts awaiting and dreading. She had been quietly tucked in one of the corner seats for most of the night, working on her homework and keeping out of everybody’s way. Even after most of the House had cleared out back to their separate dorms, a few clusters of friends lingered, caught up in their private conversations. Tracey and Cassius had left Violet alone nearly an hour ago at her insistence — and now, at  _ his _ urging, Crabbe and Goyle had gotten up from the sofa in front of the fireplace and left Malfoy sitting all by himself in front of the dying coals.

There was only one other person in the common room with them now; a fifth year girl, not paying attention to anything besides the mountain of homework in front of her. Violet waited another ten minutes, just to let steel her already frazzled nerves, before rising from her shadowy seat.

Draco had been sitting in the same place all night. He took up one end of the long, leather sofa, arm draped over the side in a way that might have looked casual if his hand weren’t clenched in such a tight fist. Violet crossed the room and sat, where she had never sat before, in the middle of the sofa, right next to Malfoy. He stared into what was left of the fire, and she stared at him.

It took another three minutes for him to even acknowledge her presence.

“Something on my face, Potter?” he spat, finally breaking the silence.

“No, not that I can see,” Violet said coolly. “Not even your usual, insufferable sneer — they really knocked the wind out of your sails, didn’t they?”

Malfoy’s face went a lurid shade of pink. His fist, still tightly clenched on the arm of the sofa, was white-knuckled and shaking.

“I’d have thought they’d treat you with more respect, is all,” Violet pushed, reclining casually, mimicking his pose and posture. “Especially after you just made such a fuss about the importance of respect between you  _ well-bred _ types.”

“Not that you’d know anything about that,” Malfoy said coldly. “You and your brother come from the lowest of the low — Mudbloods and blood-traitors. There’s nothing well-bred about you.”

“We’re bred well enough to not be scared by all this going on with the Chamber of Secrets,” Violet countered, jutting out her chin in a way she hoped made her look superior. Malfoy wasn’t even looking at her, but it did make her  _ feel _ more confident at least. She cast a sidelong glance at him. “Did you know that Harry thinks  _ you’re _ the Heir of Slytherin?”

“Me?” said Draco, finally rounding on her; he did look genuinely perplexed.

“I told him there’s no way it’s you,” said Violet. “If it  _ were _ , you’d have had a hard time shutting up about it.”

“It  _ could _ be me,” Malfoy said, his voice low. He leaned menacingly toward her. “What would you think of that, eh, Potter? Being so sure, but being so wrong?”

“I think I’m right,” Violet told him firmly. She managed to hold his icy gaze, though her heart was beating wildly in her chest. Being stared down was never something she could handle, especially from someone whose eyes were filled with such malice — but, to her surprise, Malfoy backed off. He snorted dismissively and fell heavily back into his seat, resuming his staring contest with the fireplace.

“Of course it’s not  _ me _ ,” he muttered bitterly. “And I don’t even know who it  _ is _ either.”

“You don’t?” Violet said, trying to mask her eagerness. Malfoy shot her another sour look.

“Even if I did, do you think I’d tell  _ you _ about it, Potter?”

“I think you know more than you’re letting on,” said Violet quickly. “You’ve got to have some idea who’s behind it all . . .”

“Well, I haven’t, alright?” Malfoy snapped. “I don’t know anything about what’s going on, and Father won’t tell me  _ anything _ about the last time this ha—”

He cut off abruptly, but too late; Violet’s eyes widened.

“The  _ last _ time? Has the Chamber of Secrets been opened before?”

Malfoy looked furious.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you? Sitting down here and trying to make me talk to you.”

“I  _ am _ a Slytherin,” said Violet boldly. “I was put here for a reason. Isn’t cunning what we’re supposed to be good at?”

Malfoy’s face twisted. He stood up so suddenly that Violet flinched backward, glaring down at her with a terrible malice.

“You don’t belong here. You should never have been put in this House — it’s a disgrace,” said Malfoy, viciously. “I hope Slytherin’s true Heir can sniff out that dirty blood of yours and give you exactly what you deserve.”

And with a final venomous look in her direction, Malfoy stepped around the sofa and stormed off through the entrance to the boy’s dormitory, leaving Violet seated, petrified, in front of the fireplace. She waited for a while, until her hands stopped shaking at least, before silently crossing the common room and slipping into her own bed.

 

Violet awoke on Sunday morning with a cold, heavy lump in her stomach that made it very difficult to justify getting out of bed. It would have been easier, safer, to simply lay there beneath the covers and spend the day in hiding, safe from Malfoy’s threats and ire.

What finally got her up was any swell or courage, however — there was another loud commotion taking place in the common room, though this time sounded distinctly less excitable than the last.

“What’s going on?” Violet asked, emerging bleary-eyed from the girl’s dormitory.

“There’s been another attack,” said Suzanna Runcorn, who was lingering by the door with Millicent Bulstrode, watching Gemma Farley and a younger prefect trying to maintain order among the gathered students. “The teachers are trying to keep it quiet, but one of the Hufflepuffs swears they saw someone lying on the stairs last night . . .”

“Who was it? Are they alright?”

Suzanna just shrugged.

The cold weight in Violet’s stomach grew even heavier. Tracey and Cassius were nowhere in sight, and neither was Malfoy. The common room was a sea of the familiar strangers when all she craved was comfort.

She was halfway up the stairs out of the dungeons when she remembered that Harry was in the hospital wing — and, presumably, so was the victim of the night’s attack.

Only, when Violet got there, Harry was nowhere to be found. There was a large blue curtain set up at one end of the ward, blocking a bed from view, and for a moment Violet feared the worst. But she’d only taken a few steps into the door when Madam Pomfrey intercepted her.

“Are you sick, dear? Injured?”

“No, I’m — Harry —”

“Ah yes — your brother was discharged this morning. He ought to be at breakfast.”

“Are they alright?” Violet asked quickly, trying to peer around Madam Pomfrey’s skirts, but the matron had absolutely no problem blocking her view while shooing her from the room at the same time. A moment later and Violet found herself back out in the hall with the double doors of the infirmary closed in her face.

Now annoyed, Violet made her way into the Great Hall with a frown on her face. And there was Harry, sitting with his friends, deep in a whispered conversation. None of them even looked up until Violet plopped herself down in the middle of them.

“How’s the arm?” she asked her brother, giving him a quick hug.

“Fine, thanks,” Harry said, showing his newly reboned hand and flexing his fingers for show. “Did you hear about Colin?”

“Colin?” Violet said in alarm. “The boy with the camera?”

“The teachers haven’t named him yet,” Ron said quietly, “but Harry saw when they brought him into the hospital wing last night.”

“Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall carried him in,” said Harry. “They said he was . . .  _ Petrified _ . He was just laying there, frozen — and the film in his camera was all melted. And Dumbledore said —” Harry leaned in so close their foreheads bumped together, his voice dropped to a whisper “— that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened  _ again _ . This isn’t the first time.”

“That’s what Malfoy said, too!” Violet said. “I talked to him last night, Harry — he’s not the Heir and he doesn’t know who is, but his father knows something and won’t tell him.”

“What time was it?” Ron asked urgently. “When you talked to Malfoy, I mean.”

“Late,” said Violet. “Past midnight. I had to stay up and wait until he was alone.”

Ron looked put out.

“So it  _ couldn’t _ have been him that attacked Colin . . . now what?”

“There’s something I haven’t told you yet,” said Harry, and they all turned to him. “Dobby came to visit me last night.”

He quickly relayed to them everything that the house-elf had said: The terrible danger Harry was supposedly in, the fact that he was responsible not only for the train barrier shutting them out but the rogue Bludger as well — and there was something else that he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, talk about. Dark deeds planned at Hogwarts. And Dobby  _ also _ knew about the Chamber being opened before.

“Did he say what was inside of it?” Hermione asked, wringing her hands nervously, but Harry shook his head.

“He wouldn’t tell me anything without trying to bash his own head in. All he wanted was to make me leave Hogwarts.”

“So in order to protect you,” Violet said, “he stopped us from getting on the train and then broke your arm . . .” She shook her head. “You know what, Harry? If he doesn’t stop trying to save your life he’s going to kill you.”

 

The news that Colin Creevey had been attacked and was now lying as though dead in the hospital wing had spread through the entire school by that afternoon. The air was suddenly thick with rumor and suspicion. The first years were now moving around the castle in tight-knit groups, as though scared they would be attacked if they ventured forth alone.

Ginny Weasley, who apparently sat next to Colin Creevey in Charms, was distraught, but Violet felt that Fred and George were going the wrong way about cheering her up. They were taking turns covering themselves with fur or boils and jumping out at her from behind statues. They only stopped when Percy Weasley, apoplectic with rage, told them he was going to write Mrs. Weasley and tell her Ginny was having nightmares.

Meanwhile, hidden from the teachers, a roaring trade in talismans, amulets, and other protective devices was sweeping the school. Harry said that Neville Longbottom had bought a large, evil-smelling green onion, a pointed purple crystal, and a rotting newt tail before the other Gryffindor boys pointed out that he was in no danger; he was a pureblood, and therefore unlikely to be attacked.

Tracey, unbeknownst to Violet until later that week, had also bought into the amulet craze. She now wore a garish, faintly-glowing bronze pendant pinned to her sweater beneath her robes, and even slept with it tucked beneath her pillow.

“But you’re half-blood,” Violet reassured her. “The only people who’re in danger are —”

“My mother was Muggleborn, too,” Tracey whispered, very quickly. “I know she was a witch, but she was the  _ only _ one in her family. I’m more Muggle than I am magic, Violet. What if it’s not enough?”

Her round face was fearful, brown eyes wide and nervous — Violet didn’t have an answer for that. She didn’t know how much protection her small body would offer, but she made use of it as a shield, crawling out of the warmth of her own bed and joining Tracey under the covers of hers. The year before, Tracey had promised to protect her from He-Who- Must-Not-Be-Named himself; the least Violet could do was return the favour.

 

In the second week of December Professor Snape came around as usual, collecting names of those who would be staying at school for Christmas. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius signed his list; much to their surprise, Malfoy had already signed it as well. He’d gone home last year, and bragged loudly about the grand feast held at his family’s manor and all of the expensive presents he’d been given. 

Violet thought it was especially strange for him to stay, considering the amount of trouble he planned to get himself into.

She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop — Violet had forgotten two of her course books on her desk in the Potions classroom and had only enough time left in their lunch break to run and grab them. Only when she rounded the corner, it was to find the classroom door already ajar, and the large, intimidating forms of Crabbe and Goyle standing guard on either side of it. Violet quickly ducked back around the corner and hoped they didn’t see her.

She waited there, tucked into the shadows behind the statue of a stone bear, until the sound of multiple footsteps started coming back up the hall toward her.

“. . . ought to give him a nasty surprise,” Malfoy’s voice was saying, and Violet didn’t have to see him to know he was wearing a nasty grin. “Longbottom’s too stupid to even notice the difference . . .”

The three of them passed by, and Violet waited until their footsteps sounded far enough up the corridor before stepping out from behind the statue. She had taken two steps toward the classroom door when a pair of strong hands grabbed her from behind and slammed her into the wall.

“Sneaky,” said the familiar, malevolent voice of Draco Malfoy, stepping in front of her as her vision refocused. “Sneaky,  _ sneaky _ Potter. Have you been following me? Still think I might run off and open the Chamber of Secrets while no one’s looking?”

“N-no,” Violet stammered, trying to break free of Goyle’s grasp. He was much larger and stronger than her, and pinned her easily to the cold stone wall by the shoulders. “I left my books in class —”

“Shut up,” Malfoy said, glaring. “Nobody was supposed to be down here. You keep getting in my way, Potter, and I don’t like it. Tell me what you heard.”

“Nothing!” she said quickly. “I didn’t see or hear anything!”

“Crabbe?”

The shorter of Malfoy’s two lackeys stepped forward. He grabbed Violet’s arm, yanked up the sleeve of her robe, and began twisting. Her skin felt like it was on fire.

“Stop it!” Violet cried, hot tears of pain spilling down her cheeks as she tried vainly to wriggle out of the boy’s grasp. “ _ Please _ , I didn’t see anything! I swear I didn’t!”

Crabbe gave a final, vicious twist and then let go. The skin of her forearm was already turning an angry, swollen red as Violet clutched it to her chest. Malfoy still loomed in front of her.

“Good,” he said, eyeing her arm. “Remember that, and keep your mouth shut, or I’ll have him take the skin off properly next time.”

Malfoy snapped his fingers and Goyle let go of Violet. She dropped a few inches without him holding her up, and her legs very nearly gave out beneath her. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle walked away, laughing, and left her alone in the corridor, crying and scared.

Violet didn’t even bother getting her books out of the classroom. She waited for as long as she dared — it took a long time to catch her breath and stop from sobbing, and to make the tears stop coming. She didn’t want to walk back upstairs and have everyone be able to tell she’d been crying again.

She was late to History of Magic, but Professor Binns was too busy droning on about ancient wizard collectives to notice her slip silently into her seat.

Violet kept her head down and her mouth shut, and pushed Malfoy and his threats from her mind until the following Thursday.

In their previous lesson, Professor Snape had had all of them prepare an infusion of cowbane, which must be allowed to ferment before being added to their Swelling Solutions. All of them had stored their personal brews in small glass phials, corked and sealed with wax and marked with their names to avoid mix up, in a locked cabinet at the back of the class. It was at the beginning of the lesson, as they all filed up the cabinet to collect their samples, that Violet noticed something was wrong.

The cowbane infusion was meant to be milky white in color and, for the most part, everyone’s was. But as Longbottom plucked his off the shelf beside her, Violet saw that the liquid in the phial was a slightly sickly, mustardy yellow. Even Neville, whose hands shook every moment that he was in Professor Snape’s classroom, couldn’t have produced something so far off the mark.

Violet lurched forward into Neville, knocking the vial out of his hands.

“Oh, let me get it!” she said, bending down to help him pick it up, only to nudge it further out of his grasp. Doing her best to make it look accidental, Violet knocked the vial and sent it spinning into the dark crevice beneath the cabinet.

“Neville, I’m so sorry,” she moaned, making a great show of reaching beneath and trying to grasp it. “I can’t quite — it’s too far . . .”

“It’s alright, Violet,” Neville muttered, looking very much on the verge of tears. “I didn’t have a good hold on it . . .”

Violet’s heart broke for this boy. While her actions may have protected him from whatever Malfoy had done to his infusion, with nothing to present he was sure to bear the brunt of another cruel assault from Professor Snape.

“Here,” Violet said, making up her mind. She pressed her perfect, milk-white solution into Neville’s shaking hands. “Use mine.”

“Oh!” Neville looked stunned. “N-no, I can’t —”

Over his shoulder, across the room, Violet caught sight of Malfoy. He was staring straight at them, watching everything, with Crabbe standing menacingly behind him. He’d seen what Violet had done. She set her jaw and looked back to Neville.

“Please,” she said, smiling kindly. “It’s the least I can do.”

Neville blinked at her for a moment before smiling back, and she watched him walk away clutching her phial with both hands for safe keeping. Violet ducked back beneath the cabinet and easily snatched up Neville’s infusion.

There were several steps that had to be completed before the cowbane could be added to the Swelling Solution. Dried nettles and pufferfish eyes had to be crushed down to a fine powder, and the cauldron itself had to be heated for twenty minutes before reaching the ideal temperature. Snape prowled the classroom, looming over shoulders and peering into cauldrons and making snide remarks all the while. Violet kept her head down and worked silently. Her eyes kept straying back to the contaminated infusion on the table.

She had no idea what Malfoy had done to it. Knowing him, it was nothing good. He had no love for Neville, and likely wouldn’t care if the Gryffindor got hurt or not. Did she dare speak up to Professor Snape about what she’d heard? Malfoy  _ was _ his favourite student, no matter what Harry and Hermione thought — Violet hadn’t actually  _ seen _ Malfoy do anything to the phials, even after overhearing his boasts, and the wax seal still looked intact, even though something was very clearly wrong with it.

And all through class, she could feel eyes on her from across the room. Malfoy, watching her like a bird of prey. Even if she did say something to Snape, he would deny it — and then he would come after her for speaking up, of course. Her arm still itched even a week later. She had absolutely no desire to let Crabbe get his fat hands on her again.

When the time came to add the prepared infusion — Violet’s Swelling Solution was the perfect consistency, a thick, glassy green shimmering up at her — there was nothing else she could do. Violet broke the wax seal and took a deep breath.

She dumped the yellow essence into her cauldron.

Immediately, the potion went from cool green to an angry orange. It began to smoke and roil — Violet took a step back, but not far enough.

There was a terrible concussive force in her chest as the cauldron swelled and burst, splattering her in burning liquid and bits of metal shards. Violet was knocked off her feet and the back of her head cracked loudly against the edge of the desk behind her.

That was all she remembered of the class.

Some time later, Violet opened her eyes and found herself staring up at the ceiling of the hospital wing. Her ears were ringing and her head ached very badly, and both Madam Pomfrey and Harry were standing over her.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Madam Pomfrey said, far too loudly for Violet’s comfort, and drew back. She was holding a pitcher of some sort in her hands, and her face was very white. “Can you hear me, dear?”

“Ugh . . .” Violet groaned. She tried to nod, but the pain made her want to black out all over again.

“Good, very good. Can you see? Are there any spots of light or darkness in your vision?”

“Nuh . . .” Violet managed, this time trying to shake her head. It hurt less, but was still painful. Madam Pomfrey looked satisfied by her vocalizations, at least.

“Excellent. You’re quite the lucky one, Miss Potter. And here I thought you were the sensible one of the pair.” She gave a rather sharp look at Harry, who Violet slowly came to realize was holding her hand. “Five minutes, Mr. Potter — your sister needs to rest.”

“Thanks, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry said as the matron bustled away, leaving the pair of them alone. He looked back to Violet, his face pinched with concern. “How are you feeling?”

Violet swallowed, thinking it might help her speak more clearly, but the motion only made her feel as though her head was going to split open.

“Sore,” she said weakly.

“I’ll bet — your whole cauldron exploded, Vi! I thought you were —”

He cut off, frowning. Violet squeezed his hand as much as she was able. Every part of her felt very heavy, and tingly for some reason.

“S’anybody hurt?” she said. It was impossible to turn her head to look around the hospital wing, as though more of her classmates might be in the same position as her. Harry shook his head.

“Tracey’s arm got splashed, but she only got a little burned. Everyone else is okay.” He dropped his voice. “Snape’s furious. He kept shouting about tampering — what happened, Violet? You’re brilliant at Potions.”

Violet very much wanted to tell her brother that Malfoy was to blame, knowing full well that Harry would immediately seek him out and make him pay. But then Harry would be the one to get in trouble — Snape would surely take Malfoy’s side, and Violet would  _ still _ be at risk from Crabbe and Goyle. Also, the thought of having to say so many words at once did not appeal to her at the moment. Violet’s eyes kept trying to slip shut.

“Made a mistake . . .” she said, suddenly very tired. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Madam Pomfrey returning to throw Harry out. “Later . . .”

 

It was another two days before Violet was let out of the hospital wing. She hadn’t realized at it first, but her whole head was wrapped in thick white bandages that had to be kept tightly wound around her skull — the tainted Swelling Solution had gotten into the cut she received from hitting the edge of the desk, and her head kept trying to slowly balloon unless kept under control. The potion had to work its way out of her system, Madam Pomfrey told her, as she administered a light rinse of diluted Deflating Draught for the third time that day. It explained the headache, and the terrible pressure she would feel after laying still for too long.

Tracey and Cassius visited every chance they got, bringing her sweets and treats and iced pumpkin juice from the Great Hall. Tracey had been frantic with worry — she’d distracted herself by weaving more colorful ‘friendship bracelets,’ to keep her hands and mind busy. Cassius had at least three on each wrist, and Violet was powerless to stop Tracey from affixing no less than five of the things to her arms while she babbled on about the days activities.

Fred and George also made an appearance, with Ginny in tow. The Weasley twins were still trying to cheer their younger sister up, and thought that the sight of Violet’s swollen head might make her laugh. It did not, but the conversation was nice at least. Ginny was able to speak directly to Violet now, without asking strange questions about Harry. And she  _ did _ smile when Violet gifted her with one of Tracey’s bracelets. That was something, at least.

No visitors were allowed to remain for long, however. On the other side of the room a large blue curtain blocked one of the beds from sight — Violet knew that Colin Creevey was just behind it, supposedly frozen in place like a living statue. Madam Pomfrey only went behind the curtain twice a day, and never for very long. She always came out looking sad.

On Sunday Violet was released with a bill of clean health, and said a very gracious goodbye to Madam Pomfrey. Her head no longer ached and her body felt back to its light, usual self. Violet was coming down the stairs toward the entrance hall, excited to find her own soft bed in the Slytherin dormitory —

“Potter?”

Violet looked around with a start. At the top of the landing she’d just come from was Professor McGonagall, standing with a very stern expression on her face. She descended the stairs toward Violet, slowly and with purpose.

“Yes, professor?”

“I was hoping to catch you in the infirmary,” McGonagall said, “but I appear to have just missed you. How are you feeling?”

“Er — much better, thank you,” said Violet. She kept forgetting how tall Professor McGonagall was, and it didn’t feel good at all to be looked at down that pointed nose.

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Professor McGonagall. “If you would follow me, please, Potter — I believe we need to have a word.”

Violet’s heart sank all the way down to her knees. Professor McGonagall wasn’t her Head of House, but she  _ was _ the school’s Deputy Headmistress. The only reason she would be the one speaking to Violet would be if something was very wrong, or if she was in a  _ lot _ of trouble.

With the blood rushing in her ears, Violet followed quietly behind Professor McGonagall all the way to her first-floor office. On the way, coming up from the Slytherin dungeons, was the Slytherin Quidditch team, dressed in their green robes and each carrying their fancy new broomsticks, clearly on their way to practice. Violet locked eyes with Draco Malfoy. He stopped, narrowed eyes following her as she crossed the hall, and she couldn’t shake the feeling of a target being locked on to her back.

Things only got worse once the door to the office opened. Professor McGonagall stepped back to let Violet enter and there, standing in wait in front of the desk, was the black- clad, frowning form of Professor Snape. He said nothing as Violet stepped inside, followed by Professor McGonagall, but Snape’s cold gaze made Malfoy’s glare look like a friendly smile.

Professor McGonagall took a seat behind her grand wooden desk and leaned forward. She looked at Violet over the rims of her rectangular glasses.

“Have a seat, Potter.”

Violet sat. She clasped her hands together to stop them from shaking.

“It was brought to my attention,” said Professor McGonagall, “that a student from my House had some concerns about your recent visit to the hospital wing. Mr. Longbottom was very upset to hear the extent of your injuries — he seems to believe that such a fate was intended for  _ him. _ ”

Snape, who had been silently looming over Violet since she sat down, reached into his pockets and produces two small, familiar phials: One was full of a milky white liquid, sealed with red wax, and the other was open and empty, and had a large chip out of the lip. Each phial bore a paper label which read, respectively,  _ V. Potter _ and  _ N. Longbottom. _ Professor Snape set both of them on the desk in front of Violet. She stared, and swallowed.

“Oh.”

“I found  _ this _ ,” Snape said, pointing to the chipped, empty phial, “in the remains of your station. And this,” he pointed to the intact phial, “was reluctantly given to me by Mr. Longbottom when I confronted him.”

“I spoke to Mr. Longbottom as well,” said Professor McGonagall, and she shot Snape a reproachful look. “He confided in me that before class, as the two of you were collecting your ingredients, you were very insistent that he should swap his infusion for yours. Even going so far as to knock the phial from his hand. Is this true, Miss Potter?”

Professor McGonagall was looking at her very sternly, and Violet was certain that both teachers could hear the rapid pounding of her heartbeat. She hadn’t planned anything beyond getting the tainted phial away from Neville — there was a saying she’d read somewhere that seemed very applicable right now:  _ No good deed goes unpunished. _

Slowly, and without meeting McGonagall’s eyes, Violet nodded.

Snape picked up the empty phial and gave it a small sniff.

“This infusion has been soured, likely with bile of some sort,” he said softly. “Such a toxin clearly destabilized the potion it was added to, resulting in the explosion you suffered. Curious, considering there is no bile used in a Swelling Solution, and no reason for it to have been able to contaminate the cowbane. Also curious, Potter, that you were able to identify the  _ one _ tainted sample in the entire stock and go to such lengths to take it for yourself. Such a strange series of circumstances . . .”

Violet’s gaze was locked on the polished wood grain of Professor McGonagall’s desk; she didn’t have to look up at Snape to feel his black eyes boring into her. And she couldn’t look up across the desk without meeting the same intense scrutiny from Professor McGonagall.

The truth was bursting in the back of her throat, desperately trying to claw its way out. It would be so simple just to tell them what she’d heard. Malfoy, coming out of the classroom after hours, talking about giving Neville a ‘nasty surprise.’ She could tell them about being caught, and the way she’d been held and hurt by Crabbe and Goyle on Malfoy’s orders. The redness and bruises had long since faded from her arm, but surely they would believe her — even Snape, who often went out of his way to support Malfoy, might believe the truth if only she were brave enough to speak it.

But Violet wasn’t brave at all. She wasn’t a Gryffindor, and she wasn’t Harry, and she didn’t want it getting back to Malfoy that she’d been the one to get him in trouble. She wouldn’t put it past him at all to  _ really _ take the skin off her arm, or find some other way to hurt her. 

And Violet was very tired of people hurting her.

“I did it,” she said, forcing her face into a guilty expression. “I put the bile in Longbottom’s infusion.”

There was silence in the office. The two teachers shared a look at one another.

“You?” said Professor McGonagall, sounding shocked. “But — Miss Potter, why would you do such a thing?”

“It was a prank,” Violet lied, easily. “I — I thought it would be funny for the Swelling Solution to blow up in his face. But I added too much bile, and I was scared it would really hurt him if he used it so I made him switch with me.”

“And then you used the infusion yourself?” Snape said sharply. “Knowing that it would cause a volatile reaction?”

“I thought it wouldn’t be suspicious if I was the one who got hurt,” said Violet, shrugging. She felt completely numb. “And — and I didn’t think it would be so bad. The hospital visit wasn’t part of the plan . . .”

There was another long silence as Violet’s words sank in. It was all lies — she had no idea what was in that phial and it had been very stupid to dump it straight into her cauldron, but she never expected to be sent to the hospital wing. What Malfoy had done was more than a nasty surprise; it was an attack. She had taken the blow, and now she was going take the fall.

“Miss Potter . . .” said Professor McGonagall, removing her glasses with a sigh. “This behavior is completely unexpected from you.”

“Indeed,” said Snape, still staring down at her. “I’m shocked that a bright student such as yourself would partake in such base schemes.”

Violet shifted uncomfortably. She could practically feel the disapproval in Professor Snape’s tone, and somehow that was almost as bad as if he’d shouted at her. She would have preferred shouting, honestly — it would have made her cry again, but at least she was used to it. This cold disappointment was new and didn’t sit well with her.

“There must be some punishment for this, of course,” Snape continued. “Twenty points from Slytherin for sabotaging another student’s work, and you will serve a month of detention scouring cauldrons to make up for the mess you made of my classroom. Is that understood, Potter?”

Violet nodded numbly. Again, Professor McGonagall sighed and leaned back into her chair.

“I believe an apology is owed to Mr. Longbottom as well,” said Professor McGonagall. She shook her head. “Really, Miss Potter — I am  _ stunned _ that you would do such a thing. I hope this punishment is enough to impress upon you the severity of your actions, and deter you from repeating such offenses. You may go, Potter, but really — I can’t believe this from you, of all people.”

“Can’t you, Minerva?” said Professor Snape as Violet got shakily to her feet. For just a moment, she looked into the black, cold tunnels of his eyes. They pierced into the very heart of her. “After all . . . why would she lie?”


	12. The Dueling Club

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Thanks to her years with the Dursleys, Violet was used to being punished for wrongs that she hadn’t committed. She and Harry were blamed for just about everything that went wrong on Privet Drive, from leaky old taps to creaky floorboards, not to mention all the things that Dudley had ruined or broken while his mother and father were looking the other way. At the Dursleys, whenever Violet was forced to clean up a mess she hadn’t made or fix something that she hadn’t broken, it was all too easy to sit and fume at the unfairness of it all.

Now, sitting in detention on the floor of the Potions classroom, Violet had absolutely no one to blame but herself.

Professor Snape had her scouring cauldrons from the day’s lessons by hand, which was no easy task. She’d been given a pair of gloves, a stiff-bristled brush, a bucket of sudsy water, and a spray-bottle of pungent, sour-smelling green liquid. Half a dozen cauldrons were stacked around her. Their rims and outsides were covered in crusty residue from when their contents boiled over, and most of them had thick layers of scalded ingredients stuck to the bottom. Violet scrubbed and scrubbed until her hands were raw and aching, even through the thick hide of the gloves, and did not complain at all.

Coming back from McGonagall’s office that night, when Violet stepped into the Slytherin common room she immediately felt Malfoy’s eyes on her. He was back in his usual seat by the sofa, friends lounging around him, and though he said nothing as she passed back Violet could tell he was staring at her — looking for any signs of smugness or guilt. Anything to tell him that Violet had ratted him out. He watched her all through the next day, too. He kept looking over at her over breakfast and during classes, to the point that even Tracey noticed and told him off.

Violet hadn’t yet said anything to Tracey or Cassius about what she’d done. She knew they would try to change her mind, get her to tell Snape and McGonagall who was really to blame for the cauldron exploding. They would be right, of course, which was why Violet kept them in the dark — she  _ knew _ that getting Malfoy in trouble was the right thing to do, especially since she was the one who’d been harmed in the first place, but doubt and fear still lingered in the back of Violet’s mind. Malfoy wasn’t exactly popular, but the friends he did have were ruthless in their loyalty to him. And from all the stories she’d heard about this father . . . The ire of a cruel and wealthy man was not something Violet wanted to attract.

The only thing that caused her resolve to waver was the round, pinkish face of Neville Longbottom when Violet was made to give him her apology. He’d blinked at her, mouth slightly ajar the whole time she gave her stumbling, half-prepared speech. The interaction took place under the watchful eyes of Professor McGonagall, which only made it harder to get the words out. The worst thing was the hurt that settled into Neville’s eyes when Violet was finished and he finally processed what she was apologizing  _ for. _

After that mortifying experience, Violet trudged all the way across the frozen lawns toward the greenhouses before remembering that Herbology had been cancelled — Professor Sprout was devoting all her time to caring for the young Mandrakes, which needed to ripen and mature before they could be cut up and used to revive Colin Creevey. 

Not wanting to go back to the common room and face Malfoy’s accusatory stares, and not wanting to explain her sour mood to Tracey and Cassius, Violet decided to do something she hadn’t done in quite some time — pay a visit to Hagrid.

Hagrid’s hut was on the opposite side of the lawns from the Herbology greenhouses, and the walk was a frigid journey. Violet wore only her robes with no coat or cloak to keep her warm, and the ground was hard and frozen beneath her feet. Every step made a crunching sound, and the breath that came out of her turned to visible steam the moment it met the air. Violet tucked her chin to her chest and her hands under her armpits and trudged on until she reached the round little gamekeeper’s cabin. She rapped sharply on the door and stood, huffing into her hands, until Hagrid answered.

“Blimey, Violet!” he said when he saw her, his big, bearded face peering out through the crack in the door. “Yeh’ll catch yer death out in this weather like tha’. Come in, come in — I’ll put on some tea —”

A wave of welcome warmth greeted Violet as she stepped into Hagrid’s home, stomping the frost off her shoes on the grubby mat. Fang — Hagrid’s enormous black boarhound — was curled beneath a large fleece on Hagrid’s massive bed, and barely lifted his head as she entered the room. The hearth was alight with a blazing fire, and Hagrid grumbled to himself as he went about fixing a large copper kettle to a hook above the fire. Violet took her usual seat at the kitchen table, still shivering, and came face to face with the corpse of a bloodied, savaged rooster.

“Hagrid,” she said, her voice high and uncertain, “you haven’t got another dragon in here, have you?”

“’Course not,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Couldn’t take it, not after Norbert — why?”

“The chicken?”

Hagrid turned and followed her eyes to the rooster on the table. He tutted.

“Found tha’ this mornin’,” he said over the clattering of cups and saucers as he fished for matching pairs. “Second one this term. Summat got into the hen coop last night — a fox, most like. It’s gettin’ cold out there, an’ they need ter eat. Wish they’d found somethin’ besides my chickens . . .”

“I’m sorry, Hagrid,” Violet said sincerely. “How many are left?”

“Tha’ was the last rooster,” said Hagrid. He put a large, slightly misshapen yellow mug in front of Violet and fetched the kettle from the fire. “The hens haven’ been touched, which is odd, but I’m not goin’ ter count my blessings. Careful, now, tha’s hot —”

Violet put her cold hands on either side of her mug, revelling in the warmth that seeped into her skin.

“What’re you doin’ out here anyway, Violet?” Hagrid asked sternly. “Shouldn’t yeh be in class?”

“Cancelled,” she said, and told him about the little socks and scarves that Professor Sprout had knitted for the Mandrakes. Hagrid’s chair creaked loudly as he sat down across from Violet, shaking his head and frowning over his own tea.

“Terrible thing, tha’,” he muttered. “Heard about the boy they found — Petrified, of all things. It takes powerful Dark magic to do summat like that, Darker than has any business bein’ in a school.”

“No one will tell us how it happened,” Violet said quietly. “Colin being Petrified, I mean. There’s whispers about him being  _ attacked _ , but who could do something that? I didn’t think they taught any Dark magic at Hogwarts.”

“They don’t,” said Hagrid, his tone firm. “We’ve always had Defense  _ Against _ the Dark Arts here, ter teach yeh how to protect yerselves. But Dumbledore would never allow any of that rubbish bein’ put into yer heads — not under his watch, anyways. But he can’ do anythin’ ter stop kids from learnin’ it all at home.”

“What, from books?”

Hagrid shook his head. “From their parents, mostly,” he said darkly. “Some folks think their little tykes ought to know  _ everythin’ _ about magic. Hogwash, I say. It’s a heartless thing, exposin’ a child to that mess.”

Violet sipped at her scalding tea, thinking. She wondered how many Dark spells Malfoy’s parents had taught him, and then quickly decided she would rather not find out. All the more reason to stay out of his way, Violet reasoned.

“Hagrid . . . Do you think a student even  _ could _ Petrify someone?” she asked. “I mean, isn’t that a powerful sort of spell?”

“Aye, if it were a spell at all,” Hagrid said, and Violet perked up.

“What d’you mean? What else could it be?”

“Potion, maybe,” Hagrid said, shrugging. “An’ there’s creatures that can do it — defense mechanism, or fer huntin’. But if some great beast were runnin’ around the castle turnin’ folks to stone left an’ right, I think Dumbledore mighta put a stop to it by now.”

Hagrid chuckled, smiling down into the absurdly small teacup in his hand.

“Great man, Dumbledore. Great man. He’ll get this sorted, Violet, don’ you worry. Albus Dumbledore has done more fer this school than anyone else in the whole history of Hogwarts. Before he was Headmaster, when he was still teachin’ Transfiguration here, he always stepped up any time there was trouble. He put his foot down an’ tried to protect us all the last time there was all this Chamber o’ Secrets, business, an’ he stood by me when no one else did after they blamed me fer —”

Hagrid stopped speaking suddenly. He looked at Violet, who was listening to him with rapt attention, and his great bearded face went sickly white.

“Enough o’ that,” said Hagrid gruffly. “Shouldn’ta said any of that to yeh —”

“Were you in school the last time the Chamber of Secrets was opened, Hagrid?” Violet asked eagerly. “Did you know Moaning Myrtle before she died?”

Hagrid’s face went green. He got to his feet so abruptly the cups and saucers rattled, and began clearing the table.

“Time for yeh to go,” he said loudly, no longer looking at Violet. “Can’t have yeh missin’ another class.”

“I told you, it was cancelled,” Violet said. “Hagrid, please, you have to know something more about — Hey!”

Hagrid plucked the teacup right out of Violet’s hands, and the next moment he’d practically tipped her out of her chair.

“Nice ter see you, Violet,” he said, pushing her firmly toward the door. “Good talk — my big bloody mouth —”

“But I want to keep talking to you!” Violet protested as Hagrid shoved her out onto the stone steps. She whirled around to face him, just in time for the heavy wooden door to close in her face with a loud snap. Furious and bewildered, Violet beat at the door with both fists.

“Hagrid!  _ Hagrid! _ That’s not fair — and I wasn’t done with my tea! Hagrid!”

After five minutes of ineffective shouting and knocking, Violet’s anger was no longer fiery enough to keep her warm. With no answer from within (Hagrid had also yanked the curtains shut to stop her glaring in at him) and no feeling left in her chilly fingers, Violet was given no choice but to stomp back up to the castle with hundreds more questions swirling around in her head.

She would have to make another visit to the library.

 

That evening, Violet, Tracey, and Cassius were walking across the entrance hall when they saw a small knot of people gathered around the notice board, reading a piece of parchment that had just been pinned up. Harry and his friends were there, too, and beckoned them over, looking excited.

“They’re starting a Dueling Club!” said a sandy-haired Gryffindor boy, speaking to Harry. “First meeting tonight! I wouldn’t mind some dueling lessons; they might come in handy one of these days. . .”

“What, you reckon Slytherin’s monster can duel?” said Ron, but he, too, read the sign with interest.

“Could be useful,” Cassius said to Violet and Tracey as they went into dinner. “Shall we go?”

The girls were all for it, so at eight o’clock that evening they hurried back to the Great Hall. The long dining tables had vanished and a golden stage had appeared along one wall, lit by thousands of candles floating overhead. The ceiling was velvety black once more and most of the school seemed to be packed beneath it, all carrying their wands and looking excited.

“I wonder who’ll be teaching us?” said Tracey as they edged into the chattering crowd. Violet could see Harry near the front of the stage and was determined to make her way toward him.

“Probably Flitwick,” Cassius said. “He used to be a dueling champion back in the day — I’ll bet he’d be a wicked teacher.”

“As long as it’s not —” Violet began, but she ended on a groan: Gilderoy Lockhart was walking onto the stage, resplendent in robes of deep plum and accompanied by none other than Professor Snape, wearing his usual black.

Lockhart waved an arm for silence and called, “Gather round, gather round! Can everyone see me? Can you all hear me? Excellent!

“Now, Professor Dumbledore has granted me permission to start this little dueling club, to train you all in case you ever need to defend yourselves as I myself have done on countless occasions — for full details, see my published works.

“Let me introduce my assistant, Professor Snape,” said Lockhart, flashing a wide smile. “He tells me he knows a tiny bit about dueling himself and has sportingly agreed to help me with a short demonstration before we begin. Now, I don’t want any of you youngsters to worry — you’ll still have your Potions master when I’m through with him, never fear!”

“Snape’s gonna kill him,” Cassius muttered in Violet’s ear, unable to keep the grin off of his face. 

Indeed, Snape’s upper lip was curling. Violet wondered why Lockhart was still smiling; if Snape had been looking at  _ her _ like that she’d have been running as fast as she could in the opposite direction.

Lockhart and Snape turned to face each other and bowed; at least, Lockhart did, with much twirling of his hands, whereas Snape jerked his head irritably. Then they raised their wands like swords in front of them — going by their stances, Violet couldn’t help but think that Snape must know more than a ‘tiny bit’ about dueling compared to Lockhart.

“As you see, we are holding our wands in the accepted combative position,” Lockhart told the silent crowd. “On the count of three, we will cast our first spells. Neither of us will be aiming to kill, of course.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that,” Violet murmured, watching Snape baring his teeth.

“One — two — three —”

Both of them swung their wands above their heads and pointed them at their opponent; Snape cried: “ _ Expelliarmus _ !” There was a dazzling flash of scarlet light and Lockhart was blasted off his feet: he flew backward off the stage, smashed into the wall, and slid down it to sprawl on the floor.

Malfoy and some of the other Slytherins, including Cassius, cheered. 

Lockhart was getting unsteadily to his feet. His hat had fallen off and his wavy hair was standing on end.

“Well, there you have it!” he said, tottering back to the platform. “That was a Disarming Charm — as you see, I’ve lost my wand — ah, thank you, Miss Brown —  yes, an excellent idea to show them that, Professor Snape, but if you don’t mind my saying so, it was very obvious what you were about to do. If I had wanted to stop you it would have been only too easy — however, I felt it would be instructive to let them see . . .”

Professor Snape was looking murderous. Possibly Lockhart had noticed, because he said, “Enough demonstrating! I’m going to come amongst you now and put you all into pairs. Professor Snape, if you’d like to help me —”

They moved through the crowd, matching up partners. Lockhart teamed Cassius with a Ravenclaw girl who looked to be in his year, and Snape simply nodded when Tracey and Violet moved hopefully toward each other. Violet noticed, however, that he made a point of putting Harry and Malfoy together. Ron was put with a sandy-haired Gryffindor boy, and Hermione was stuck with Millicent Bulstrode. Suzanna Runcorn got partnered with Goyle and looked like she might flee.

“Face your partners!” called Lockhart, back on the platform, “And bow!”

Violet and Tracey bowed deeply and dramatically to one another, giggling.

“Wands at the ready!” shouted Lockhart. “When I count to three, cast your charms to disarm your opponents —  _ only _ to disarm them — we don’t want any accidents, now — one . . . two . . . three —”

“ _ Ricta- _ ” started Tracey, swinging her wand high over her head, but Violet was faster.

“ _ Expelliarmus! _ ” she cried, mimicking Snape’s demonstration spell. Her aim wasn’t quiet perfect — the spell hit Tracey in the shoulder instead of the chest but, to Violet’s amazement Tracey’s arm jerked backward and the wand was forcefully knocked from her hand, sailing a good ten feet into the air. Tracey only just managed to catch it as it hurtled, spinning wildly, toward the floor. She looked at Violet in awe.

Around them, the room had devolved into chaos.

Cassius was drenched in water and visibly chattering. Some feet away, Malfoy was on his knees, gasping with laughter, and in front of him Harry’s legs were jerking uncontrollably beneath him.

“ _ I said disarm only _ !” Lockhart shouted in alarm over the heads of battling crowd, to little effect. “Stop! Stop!”

It was Snape, however, that took charge. He pointed his wand skyward above the crowd and yelled, “ _ Finite Incantatem! _ ”

Everything seemed to stop all at once. A haze of greenish smoke was hovering over the scene. Both Neville and his partner were lying on the floor, panting; Ron was holding up his own ashen faced partner, apologizing for whatever his broken wand had done; but Hermione and Millicent were still moving; Millicent was sporting a large lump on her forehead and currently had Hermione in a headlock; both their wands lay forgotten on the floor.

“Dear, dear,” said Lockhart, skittering through the crowd, looking at the aftermath of the duels. “Up you go, Macmillan . . . Careful there, Miss Fawcett . . . Pinch it hard, it’ll stop bleeding in a second, Boot —

“I think I’d better teach you how to  _ block _ unfriendly spells,” said Lockhart, standing flustered in the midst of the hall. He glanced at Snape, whose black eyes glinted, and looked quickly away. “Let’s have a volunteer pair — Potter and Potter, eh, how about that —”

“I suggest not,” said Professor Snape suddenly, gliding over to Lockhart’s side. “Even if Miss Potter had not recently suffered a concussion, I doubt the pair of them are willing to raise their wands against one another.” Violet’s face immediately went hot. “How about Malfoy and  _ Mr. _ Potter?” said Snape with a tight smile.

“Excellent idea!” said Lockhart, gesturing Harry and Malfoy into the middle of the hall as the crowd backed away to give them room. Violet pushed her way to the front near where Harry stood and gave him an encouraging double thumbs-up. Lockhart bustled excitedly over to him.

“Now, Harry,” said Lockhart. “When Draco points his wand at you, you do  _ this. _ ”

He raised his own wand, attempted a complicated sort of wiggling action, and dropped it. Snape smirked as Lockhart quickly picked it up, saying, “Whoops — my wand is a little overexcited —”

Snape moved closer to Malfoy, bent down, and whispered something in his ear. Malfoy smirked, too. Violet didn’t like the look of that at all. Harry looked up nervously at Lockhart and said, “Professor, could you show me that blocking thing again?”

Lockhart cuffed Harry merrily on the shoulder. “Just do what I did, Harry!”

“What, drop his wand?” Tracey murmured. Thankfully, Lockhart didn’t hear her.

“Three — two — one — go!” he shouted.

Malfoy raised his wand quickly and bellowed, “ _ Serpensortia! _ ”

The end of his wand exploded. Violet watched, aghast, as a long black snake shot out of it, fell heavily onto the floor between Malfoy and Harry, and raised itself, ready to strike. There were screams as the crowd backed swiftly away, clearing the floor. Violet remained frozen, eyes fixed on the snake as it reared toward Harry.

“Don’t move, Potter,” said Snape lazily, clearly enjoying the chaos. “I’ll get rid of it . . .”

He had taken a single step toward the snake when it spasmed suddenly, its tail curling around itself as it writhed on the floor. Harry was still standing in front of it, eyes wide, mouth hanging open — why didn’t he run? The snake was still twitching oddly, as though held in place by some invisible force, but if Harry didn’t get away from it soon —

As suddenly as it began, the muscles of the snake ceased to spasm. Its black head swivelled around and a pair of slit, yellow eyes met Violet’s in the crowd. It lunged, smooth body uncoiling rapidly, hissing and furious it slithered straight toward her, fangs exposed, poised to strike.

Harry said something, and the snake stopped.

Or, Harry  _ must _ have said something. Violet heard his voice through the panic, heard the words coming out of his mouth, but it was strange. She couldn’t understand him. The snake, however, could — miraculously it slumped to the floor, docile as a thick, black garden hose in front of Violet. It looked up at her, and Violet looked over at Harry.

He was grinning, and looked as though he expected her to be grinning back — only Violet was far too stunned, and the whole hall had fallen far too silent. Everyone was looking at them.

Snape stepped forward, waved his wand, and the snake vanished in a small puff of black smoke. He, too, was looking at Harry strangely: It was a shrewd and calculating look, and Violet didn’t understand it. She was also dimly aware of ominous muttering all around the walls. Ron stepped forward suddenly, grabbed the back of Harry’s robes, and began steering him out of the hall. Violet took one look at Snape, then Malfoy, and hurried out of the hall after them.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were making a good pace up the hall and Violet had to run to catch up to them. No one would say anything until they slipped into an empty classroom and locked the door behind them. Ron pushed Harry into a chair and said, “You’re a Parselmouth. Why didn’t you tell us?”

“I’m a what?” said Harry.

“ _ A Parselmouth! _ ” said Ron. “You can talk to snakes!”

“I know,” said Harry. “I mean, that’s only the second time I’ve ever done it. I accidentally set a python on my cousin Dudley at the zoo once —”

“Boa constrictor,” Violet corrected. “It was a boa constrictor.”

“Right — but it was telling me it had never seen Brazil and then Dudley pushed Violet and she made the glass go away — that was before we knew we were wizards —”

“A python told you it had never seen Brazil?” Ron repeated faintly.

“It wasn’t a python!” Violet said again.

“So?” said Harry, not paying attention to her. “I bet loads of people here can do it.”

“Oh, no they can’t. It’s not a very common gift,” said Ron. He rounded on Violet. “And you can do it  _ too _ ?”

“No, I can’t,” said Violet, shaking her head. “I mean, I could hear Harry talking, but I didn’t understand any of it. Why? Should I be able to?”

“No!” Ron said emphatically. “Neither of you should be able to — Harry, this is bad.”

“What’s bad?” said Harry, starting to look quite angry. “What’s wrong with everyone? Listen, if I hadn’t told that snake not to attack Violet —”

“Oh, that’s what you said to it?”

“What d’you mean? You were there — you heard me —”

“I heard you speaking Parseltongue,” said Ron. “Snake language. You could have been saying anything — if it wasn’t coming at Violet I’d’ve thought you were egging the snake on or something — it was creepy, you know —”

Harry gaped at him.

“I spoke a different language? But — I didn’t realize — how can I speak a different language without knowing I can speak it?” He looked at Violet. “And you — you really didn’t understand it? What did you think I was saying?”

“I don’t know . . .” said Violet, uncomfortable with the dark looks that Ron and Hermione were sharing with one another. “It just sounded, I dunno — soft?”

Harry was looking very angry now.

“D’you want to tell me what’s wrong with stopping a massive snake from killing my sister?” he said to Ron and Hermione. “What does it matter  _ how _ I did it as long as Violet doesn’t have to spend another week in the hospital wing?”

“It matters,” said Hermione, speaking at last in a hushed voice, “because being able to talk to snakes was what Salazar Slytherin was famous for. That’s why the symbol of Slytherin House is a serpent.”

Both Violet and Harry’s mouths fell open.

“Exactly,” said Ron. “And now the whole school’s going to think you’re his great-great- great-great grandson or something —”

“But I’m not,” said Harry, looking at Violet in panic. “We — we can’t be?”

“You’ll find that hard to prove,” said Hermione. “He lived about a thousand years ago; for all we know, you could be.”

“But Harry’s in Gryffindor,” Violet blurted. “ _ I’m _ the one who was sorted into Slytherin. If we’re related to Salazar Slytherin himself, how come Harry can speak to snakes but I can’t?”

Hermione hesitated, looking nervously at Ron, who said, “Maybe it skipped you? All my family’s got red hair, but we’ve got a cousin who’s blonder than Malfoy.”

“But that’s —” Violet struggled with her words for a moment, tears springing inexplicably to her eyes. “That isn’t  _ fair. _ ”

“Not  _ fair _ ?” repeated Ron, sounding baffled. “You mean you  _ want _ to be Slytherin’s Heir?”

“No! But why can Harry speak Parseltongue and I can’t? We’re twins — we’ve always been the same, we’ve always been able to do everything together —”

“What, like setting snakes on people?”

“ _ Ron _ ,” Harry said sharply, but it was too late. Unable to hold back the tears any longer and too angry to keep talking, Violet turned on her heel and ran from the classroom, leaving her brother and his friends behind.


	13. The Detention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

“You’re really upset about this, aren’t you?” Cassius said, slouched across from Violet at the breakfast table. He was watching, clearly amused, as Violet viciously tore into her hamsteak — sticking it through with her fork and sawing at it with gusto, teeth gnashing as she chewed.

“I dunno know what you’re talking about,” Violet snapped through a mouthful of sausage.

“You’re  _ not _ Slytherin’s Heir,” Cassius told her for the third time — he’d openly guffawed when Violet told him and Tracey about the theories Ron and Hermione had come up with, and that’d done nothing to improve Violet’s mood. “Come on, you have to know that, Violet.”

“I said I’m not mad,” Violet said, tearing her toast in half with both hands. Beside her, Tracey let out a small snort of laughter.

“Harry’s  _ definitely _ not the Heir of Slytherin,” continued Cassius, “on account of he’s a Gryffindor, and there’s absolutely no evidence that the Potters were ever connected to the Slytherin line.”

“How could you possibly know that?” Tracey asked. Cassius shrugged.

“I told you, my father cared about that stuff. He used to make me look at family trees and birth records and all sorts of weird old certificates. But look — don’t get caught up in this whole Parseltongue thing, alright? Salazar Slytherin wasn’t the only one who could speak it, and that doesn’t mean you or Harry are related to him because of it. Herpo the Foul was a Parselmouth, and he lived in Ancient Greece. That’s nowhere near where Slytherin was from.”

“Herpo the Foul?” said Violet dubiously. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“Honestly I don’t know why you feel badly in the first place,” said Cassius, frowning at her. “Harry’s the one people think is a murderer, not you.”

“Cass!” Tracey scolded, but that was just too much for Violet to handle in her already foul mood. With a final furious chomp on her bacon, Violet shoved the empty plate away from her and stood abruptly from the table. There was a definite hush as she stormed out of the Great Hall, and the feeling of many eyes on her from all directions only made her feel all the more unhappy. Violet could hear the sound of footsteps rushing behind her and, even knowing that it was Tracey, didn’t slow her stride.

“He didn’t mean it,” Tracey panted when she finally caught up, dancing sideways now to keep within Violet’s line of sight. “You know what he’s like, he just  _ says _ things —”

“Harry’s  _ not _ a murderer,” said Violet angrily. “And besides, nobody’s even  _ died _ .”

“I know he’s not,” said Tracey, “but people are just scared — they want somebody to blame, and Harry’s already special and famous and all that, and now he can do something even  _ more _ special —”

“Something that  _ I _ can’t do!” Violet erupted, stopping finally, and so suddenly that Tracey nearly skidded past her. “I hate it! Me and him have always been the same, we do  _ everything _ together at the Dursleys. Even at school, before we came to Hogwarts, teachers and kids would get us mixed up because we’re so similar and we look the same and sound the same, but now — now Harry can fly, and he’s on the Quidditch team, and he saved everybody from You- Know-Who last year —  _ again _ — and now he can talk to snakes, too? What do I get to do that’s special?”

Tracey was looking at her, mouth slightly ajar as though she didn’t know how to respond to any of that, and Violet didn’t blame her. Even if she did say something it would likely be the wrong thing, because Violet wasn’t in the mood to hear anything good at the moment. She was angry, and embarrassed, and feeling an emotion that up until then she had only ever associated with Dudley —  _ jealousy _ .

Making matters even worse was Harry’s own misery at the situation.

All through the day, whenever she caught glimpses of her brother, Violet saw him passing through crowds with ease as students parted silently before him, pressing against corridor walls to avoid looking at or bumping into him. She heard the whispers from students in other Houses, and the fear in their voices as they recounted exaggerated tales of what had happened at the Dueling Club the night before. Harry wasn’t just special to these people, he was  _ feared _ . He was Slytherin’s Heir, bringer of death and Dark magicks, ready at any moment to call upon the terrible monster that supposedly slumbered deep within the school.

They saw him as all of these terrible things, and yet all Violet could see was the same skinny boy with the same untidy hair that she had known all her life. His face was her face, and at the moment both of them were etched with deep frowns and furrowed brows, angry and confused and too stubborn to do anything about it other than mope. That was part of being a twin, Violet had always thought. The two of them were the same, and had always been the same. As far as she’d ever known, they would  _ always _ be the same.

Except now, suddenly, they weren’t.

 

Violet’s temper had not cooled one bit as evening rolled around. It dimmed and simmered, sometimes nearing the edge of going out, only for something to pop up and dump more fuel on the fire.

Defense Against the Dark Arts class was nothing more than a farce by this point. Lock- hart had given up on practical demonstrations after his very first disastrous lesson with the pixies, and he had yet to teach them even a single defensive spell. All he did was read them excerpts from his books — usually passages about how dashing and triumphant he was — and make them act out dramatic scenes up at the front of the class. Violet was a favourite subject for him to call on, and today she was forced to play the part of the Brandon Banshee.

“—  _ and through sheer force of will I withstood the terrifying Banshee’s wail _ — a bit louder, Violet, if you please —  _ fending the creature off and backing her into a corner where  _ —”

By the end of the lesson, Violet’s throat was raw from screeching at increasingly higher intervals. The classroom was a sea of stares and sniggers as she was finally allowed back to her seat, and even being awarded ten House points didn’t make it worth the humiliation.

And if Violet had thought she would find solace in Potions class, a subject she excelled at and a classroom where no nonsense was usually tolerated, then she was very sorely mistaken.

Snape was relentless in his ridicule of Harry. 

Apparently word had gotten round to the teachers, through the whispers of students and staff room gossip, no doubt, that Harry was the prime suspect as the Heir of Slytherin. There was nothing Harry could do but sit there and fume as Snape made jab after jab about his supposed Dark powers and his secret agenda, culminating in him insinuating that Harry was paying tribute to his lineage by losing Gryffindor so many House points and putting Slytherin in the lead.

Violet thought her brother’s head might explode. She could see a vein popping in his temple from across the room, and Ron’s constant whispering might well have been the only thing stopping him from launching himself at Professor Snape.

Violet couldn’t help but simmer quietly as well, annoyed by Snape’s constant needling of her twin but too intimidated to try standing up for him. It wasn’t until the end of class that Professor Snape threw his ire her way as well.

“Potter,” he said as the students were packing their bags. Harry and Violet looked up, but it was her eyes that he met. “Don’t be late for your detention this evening. Even descendants of Slytherin himself have to suffer the consequences of their idiocy.”

Violet’s face flushed as murmurs and giggles immediately sprung up around her. She nodded silently and hurried from the classroom, head tucked down to avoid the wary stares and glares.

 

That night, full from dinner, Violet said goodnight to Tracey and Cassius and made her way down to the opposite side of the dungeons by herself. Professor Snape was grading papers at his desk when she arrived, and said nothing when Violet entered the classroom. A pile of dirty cauldrons was already set out for her and settled into the grueling work without so much as a sigh.

Three hours later, when Violet was on her seventh cauldron, Professor Snape spoke.

“Potter.”

Violet started, and very nearly sprayed scrubbing solution into her own face. She wasn’t used to being spoken to during these detentions. When she looked up, Snape was still sitting behind his desk, staring at her. With one hand, he beckoned her forward.

Violet stripped off her gloves and approached the desk.

“Yes, sir?”

“How much longer do you plan to keep this up?” Snape asked. Violet looked back over her shoulder at her work.

“Maybe another hour, sir — I’ve only got three cauldrons left, but there’s a bunch of black stuff all down the side of one of them —”

“I mean, Miss Potter,” Snape interrupted, his tone sharp, “how long do you intend to keep  _ lying _ to me?”

Violet’s mouth fell open.

“Wh-what?”

She had never liked the cold, calculating nature of Professor Snape’s black eyes, and liked it even less when they were turned on her in suspicion. Now they were fixed on her face, boring into her own green eyes with a stern intensity.

“You didn’t befoul Longbottom’s infusion any more than he did it himself, and certainly not as a prank. I don’t believe such base cruelty is in your nature — and yet you’ve taken both the blame and the punishment for it. Tell me why.”

Violet’s stomach dropped. If Snape had known all along that she wasn’t responsible, why had he kept her in detention? Why hadn’t he said something sooner?

“You’re covering for someone, that much is clear,” Professor Snape continued, still looking at her as though she were a fly on a pinboard. “Was it your brother?”

“Of course not,” Violet blurted. Her face reddened slightly. “I mean — it was me, sir — I’m the one who —”

“Potter, if you ever lie to me again you’ll spend the rest of your time at this school scrubbing toilets for Mr. Filch, do you understand me?”

Tears immediately sprang to Violet’s eyes, hot and stinging even as she tried to blink them away. She dropped her gaze away from Snape’s face, focusing on the whorls of his wooden desk.

Her voice was very small as she said, “I understand, sir.”

“Good,” said Professor Snape. “Now tell me who is responsible.”

Violet almost couldn’t see now for the tears in her eyes. It would be so simple just to blurt out Malfoy’s name and tell Snape everything that she’d heard him say. She wouldn’t be in trouble anymore, she wouldn’t have to spend every other night scrubbing until her hands were raw and her nose was stinging from the scent of burnt, acrid chemicals. She could tell Neville what had really happened, that she’d never really tried to hurt him at all and then he would stop slouching away from her whenever they crossed paths in the hallway. The opportunity was right in front of her, and yet . . .

If she told the truth, Malfoy would face the consequences, and he would  _ know _ that she had ratted him out. His grey eyes were colder than Snape’s would ever be, and after encountering his father in Flourish and Blotts and hearing the awful things he said to the Weasleys, Violet was absolutely certain that if she were to ever cross the Malfoy family, each and every one of them was capable of making her life more of a living hell than it already was. They could threaten her, scare her, bully her, and hurt her, and no one — not even Harry — would be able to protect her from somebody with that much wealth and power behind them. Violet knew how the world worked. She listened to the news, and she listened to Uncle Vernon’s rants over the breakfast table more than he likely thought she did. The rich and powerful preyed on the poor and weak, and Violet was as weak and penniless as a person could get.

“Miss Potter?”

Violet looked up abruptly and realized that she hadn’t answered yet. She’d just been standing there and crying in front of Professor Snape, who was now looking at her very oddly.

“Do you  _ know _ who did this?” he asked, his voice less sharp than it had been before.

Hesitantly, Violet nodded. 

“Are you protecting them?”

Violet hesitated for even longer this time — she shook her head. Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you afraid of them?” Professor Snape asked. “Did they threaten you?”

Violet blinked rapidly as another swell of tears rose in her eyes. Her throat felt tight, the familiar ache of a sob building itself up right behind her tongue. She nodded once — a short, sharp jerk of her head.

“Potter,” said Professor Snape. He waited until Violet looked up at him to continue. “As your teacher and Head of House, it is my duty to secure the safety of each and every student under my care. If a student is hurt, I must aid them. If you are in danger, I will protect you, but I cannot do that without knowing who is to blame. You will come to no harm under my watch.”

His expression was firm and tense, and not at all welcoming to Violet’s eyes, but his words rang as sincere. She remembered suddenly the way Professor Snape had behaved the year before when both she and Harry were in definite mortal peril. Snape had tried to counter Quirrell’s jinx on Harry’s broom, and had even intervened in future Quidditch matches to keep a closer eye on her brother. And even when Violet had allowed herself to be convinced of his guilt in plotting against them, Professor Snape had rushed to call Professor Dumbledore back so that he could save Harry from You-Know-Who. Malfoy was one of Snape’s favourite students, but Dumbledore had told both Harry and Violet that Professor Snape owed their father a debt — their father had saved his life, once. Perhaps he still carried that debt with him.

Violet took a deep breath, and then everything came pouring out all at once.

Snape listened passively as she tearfully explained what she had heard Malfoy saying as he snuck out of the classroom, and what he’d told the other boys to do to her. The bruising and redness had long since faded but she showed him the place on her arm where Crabbe had twisted the skin until it burned, and how Malfoy said he would flay her if she told anyone what he’d done.

When Snape asked why she’d interfered with Longbottom’s potion at all if she were so scared of Malfoy’s retaliation, Violet floundered.

“Neville’s never done anything to Malfoy — he’s never done anything to  _ anyone _ but he’s always picked on and bullied and it — it’s not fair. I couldn’t just let him get hurt like that without warning.”

“So you allowed yourself to be hurt instead?” Professor Snape asked, a thick black brow arching upward. “My, my . . . bravery to the point of foolishness. Perhaps the Sorting Hat ought to have placed with your brother after all.”

Violet flushed, but shook her head.

“It never even gave me a choice,” she said bitterly. “The Hat said Slytherin was the only place for me.”

“Did it, now?” said Professor Snape. Violet kept her eyes on the desk, suddenly uncomfortable. She hadn’t revealed that to anyone besides Tracey — even Harry didn’t know how certain the Sorting Hat had been about her fate. 

She only looked up when Professor Snape sat back in his chair, plucked a quill from his desk, and beginning to scribble something in a small notebook.

“You may go, Miss Potter,” he said without looking up at her. “I will have a word with Mr. Malfoy tomorrow aftern—”

“No!” Violet shouted, and Snape’s head jerked up in alarm. “S-sorry, sir, but I mean — if you punish Malfoy’s he’ll know I’m the one who got him in trouble, he’ll know it was  _ me _ and then he’ll —”

“Did I not just promise you my protection, Potter?” Professor Snape said sharply. He was glaring at her now. “I will deal with Mr. Malfoy. If he continues to make a fool of himself that will be on his own head, not yours. Now, I said you may  _ go _ . I don’t want to see you in this office until the start of next term, when your detention will resume.”

“ _ Detention _ ?” Violet said, aghast. “But if you know I didn’t do anything, why do I still have —”

“For  _ lying _ , Miss Potter,” said Snape. His eyes were narrowed coldly. “It’s been weeks, and you were given more than enough opportunities to come forward on your own. You will serve out your detention as planned, or you will face even harsher discipline, do I make myself clear?”

Violet was fuming. She bit the inside of her lip to stop it trembling, hands balling into tight fists at her sides.

“Yes, sir,” she said through gritted teeth. Professor Snape took another long moment to glare at her, as though waiting for her to make the mistake of snapping back at him. But then he looked away and returned his attention to the ledger on his desk.

“Out,” he said shortly. “And close the door behind you.”

Violet turned on her heel and stomped out of the classroom, leaving the half-scrubbed pile of cauldrons behind her. It took a great deal of restraint not to let the heavy wooden door slam behind her.

 

The next couple days kept Violet perpetually on edge. She froze at the sight of Malfoy in the common room each morning and kept looking over her shoulder, waiting to be ambushed and grabbed from behind. Tracey, constant companion and true friend that she was, of course noticed Violet’s strange behavior — but Violet had never told her the truth about her “accident” in Potions class, or the role Malfoy played in it. She knew she ought to — Tracey and Cassius had already lectured her about keeping secrets from them, and Violet didn’t want to misuse their trust — but there was nothing that either of them could do for her. It was  _ her _ problem, and it was one she had been solving just fine on her before Professor Snape had bullied the truth out of her.

Violet kept a close eye on Malfoy for any changes in his behavior toward her. If anything, he seemed to be paying even  _ less _ attention to her. So either Snape hadn’t spoken to him yet, or he  _ had _ and had also persuaded Malfoy to leave Violet alone.

Whatever the truth, Violet’s nerves were still fried. 

It didn’t help that she had stayed up late the night before, flipping through the book of sea monsters she’d picked up in Diagon Alley. The pictures were truly gruesome — and some were downright terrifying — but Violet was determined to see what she could find within its weathered pages. Hagrid had mentioned that some magical creatures were capable of petrifying attackers, or their prey. The school was positioned right next to a massive lake, and Violet was absolutely certain she’d seen figures moving outside the great glass window that looked out beneath the black water from the Slytherin common room. She hadn’t found anything yet, but her research had only just begun.

Their last class of the term had just come to an end. Violet and Tracey filed out Transfiguration with their classmates, weary smiles on their faces. The lesson may have ended, but their bags were heavy with all the homework their teachers had given them to finish over the break.

“I’m going back to bed,” Tracey said, chubby arms wrapped tightly around herself. “I might not sleep properly tonight, but at least I’ll be warm. Care to join me? We could get a head start on Binn’s essays.”

Violet scrunched up her cold nose at the thought of diving into schoolwork so quickly.

“You go ahead,” she said. “I want have a look around the library first. See if I can find any more monster books.”

“You’ll give yourself bad dreams again, Violet,” Tracey warned, but let her go without a fuss. The two girls hugged in the corridor and parted ways.

Violet had only been up and down two rows of shelves (though everything was carefully alphabetized, apparently ‘M’ did not stand for ‘monster’) when a flash of movement to the right caught her eye. Harry walked straight past the gap in the aisle where she was standing, a very determined look on his face. Violet opened her mouth to call after him, then remembered the fate of the last student to shout in the library, and promptly closed it again. 

Harry jumped nearly a foot in the air when Violet came up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry, sorry!” she whispered quickly. “I saw you go by — are your classes over, too?”

“Ours finished this morning,” Harry said quietly, adjusting his glasses from where they had slipped. “What are you doing here? You’re not  _ studying _ already, are you? Vi, you’re almost as bad as Hermione —”

“Not all books are for studying, Harry,” Violet said, miffed. “Sometimes I just like to read, y’know?” She looked him over, noting that he hadn’t brought his bag or anything with him. “What are  _ you _ doing here, then?”

“I’m looking for a boy in Hufflepuff,” Harry said. He looked behind Violet, as thought she might be concealing the boy from him. “Have you seen any Hufflepuffs in here?”

“Er — I think?” said Violet. “Try the back shelves. People like to gather there and talk — it’s harder for Pince to sneak up on you there.”

Harry nodded his thanks, and Violet joined him as he crept silently toward the back of the library. Madam Pince, the ancient librarian, paused in her methodical stamping of overdue books to glare at them as they skulked past, but as they were making no noise there was nothing she could really do to stop them.

At the very back of the library, Harry found what he was looking for. A group of Hufflepuffs was gathered right where Violet thought they would be, and none of them seemed to be working. Between the long lines of high bookshelves, Violet could see that their heads were close together and they were having what looked like an absorbing conversation. Harry took a few steps toward them, and then froze. He grabbed Violet’s hand as he ducked into the Invisibility section, dragging her with him. She started to ask what he was doing, but Harry held a finger first to his lips, and then tapped his ear.  _ Be quiet and listen _ .

“So anyways,” a stout boy was saying, “I told Justin to just hide up in our dormitory. I mean to say, if Potter’s marked him down as his next victim, it’s best if he keeps a low profile for a while. Of course, Justin’s been waiting for something like this to happen ever since he let slip to Potter he was Muggle-born. Justin actually  _ told _ him he’d been down for Eton. That’s not the kind of thing you bandy about with Slytherin’s heir on the loose, is it?”

“You definitely think it  _ is _ Potter, then, Ernie?” said a girl with blonde pigtails anxiously.

“Hannah,” said the stout boy solemnly, “he’s a Parselmouth. Everyone knows that’s the mark of a Dark wizard. Have you ever heard of a decent one who could talk to snakes? They called Slytherin himself Serpent-tongue.”

There was some murmuring at this, and Ernie went on, “Remember what was written on the wall?  _ Enemies of the Heir, Beware _ . Potter had some sort of run-in with Filch. Next thing we know, Filch’s cat’s attacked. That first year, Creevey, was annoying Potter at the Quidditch match, taking pictures of him while he was lying in the mid. Next thing we know — Creevey’s been attacked.”

“He always seems so nice, though,” said Hannah uncertainly, “and, well, what about his sister? She’s the one who’s actually  _ in _ Slytherin, isn’t she?”

“‘What about her’ is right,” said Ernie with a haughty little laugh. “If she’s a Parselmouth too then she’s hidden it well — and besides, she hasn’t got any funny scar, has she? Harry’s the one to watch, believe you me. And besides —”

Ernie lowered his voice mysteriously, the Hufflepuff’s bent closer, and Harry edged nearier so that he could hear better. He didn’t seem to notice that beside him, Violet was shaking.

“No one knows how he survive that attack by You-Know-Who. I mean to say, he was only a baby when it happened. He should have been blasted into smithereens. Only a really powerful Dark wizard could have survived a curse like that.” He dropped his voice until it was barely more than a whisper and said something that Violet could no longer hear. Whatever it was, it was clearly enough for Harry.

Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped out from behind the bookshelves. Violet followed, hovering behind his shoulder; if she hadn’t been feeling so angry, she would have found the sight that greeted them funny. Every one of the Hufflepuffs looked as though they had been Petrified by the sight of them, and the colour was draining out of Ernie’s face.

“Hello,” said Harry. “I’m looking for Justin Finch-Fletchly.”

The Hufflepuffs’ worst fears had clearly been confirmed. They all looked fearfully at Ernie.

“What do you want with him?” said Ernie in a quavering voice.

“I want to tell him what really happened with that snake at the Dueling Club,” said Harry.

Ernie bit his white lips and then, taking a deep breath, said, “We were all there. We saw what happened.”

“Then you noticed that after I spoke to it, the snake backed off?” said Harry.

“All I saw,” said Ernie stubbornly, though he was trembling as he spoke, “was you speaking Parseltongue and taking over that snake’s mind to chase it toward Justin.”

“I didn’t do anything to its mind” Harry said, his voice shaking with anger. “And it didn’t go anywhere  _ near _ Justin, I was trying to keep it away from my sister!”

“We all saw it twisting and writhing, trying to fight you out of its head,” said Ernie.

“That wasn’t Harry,” Violet said suddenly, and all eyes snapped to her, still half-hidden behind her brother. “It was going for him first, you saw that — when Malfoy conjured it — I was trying to hold it so he could run away.”

“So you  _ are _ a Parselmouth!” Ernie exclaimed, eyed widening alarmingly.

“She’s not,” Harry said at once, but the other Hufflepuffs were already whispering fearfully amongst themselves. He huffed angrily. “Look, I just want to talk to Justin and tell him —”

“I’ll never tell you where he is,” said Ernie dramatically, his whole body wracked with nervous tremors. “And in case you’re getting any ideas, I might tell you that you can trace my family back through nine generations on witches and warlocks and my blood’s as pure as anyone’s, so —”

“I don’t care what sort of blood you’ve got!” said Harry fiercely. “Why would we want to attack Muggle-borns?”

“I’ve heard you hate those Muggles you live with,” said Ernie swiftly.

“It’s not possible to live with the Dursleys and not hate them,” Violet spat. “I’d like to see you try it.”

She grabbed Harry’s hand and tugged, and the pair them turned on their heels and stormed out of the library, earning a reproving glare from Madam Pince, who was now polishing the gilded cover of a large spellbook.

Harry’s fury had his legs moving faster than Violet’s and she readily let him take the lead in pulling her up the corridor. She barely noticed where they were going, so blinded she was by the angry tears that had begun to well up in her eyes. The result was that when Harry came to an abrupt stop in front of her, she had no warning and ran straight into him and the pair of them fell back onto the floor.

“Oh, hello, Hagrid,” said Harry, looking up.

Hagrid’s face was entirely hidden by a wooly, snow-covered balaclava, but it couldn’t possibly be anyone else, as he filled most of the corridor in his moleskin overcoat. A dead rooster was hanging from one of his massive, gloved hands.

“All righ’, you two?” he said, pulling up the balaclava so he could speak. “Why aren’ yeh in class?”

“We’re finished with the term,” said Violet, wincing as Harry helped pull her to her feet. “Did you lose another one?”

Hagrid held up the limp rooster as she stared at it, a frown twisting his great beard.

“Aye, third one this term — bought this one jus’ the las’ week. I need the headmaster’s permission ter put a charm around the hen coop.”

He peered more closely at the pair of them from under his thick, snow-flecked eyebrows.

“Yeh sure yeh’re all righ’? Yeh look at hot an’ bothered —”

Violet quickly wiped the tears from her eyes. Harry was doing his best impression of a smile up at Hagrid.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “We’d better get going, Hagrid, we’ve got — er — homework.”

Harry started to walk away, dragging Violet along behind him. She waved awkwardly back at Hagrid as they went.

“He was only trying to help,” Violet said. “We could have talked to him, y’know.”

“ _ You _ go back and talk to him, then,” Harry said tightly, letting go of her hand. “I’m going somewhere quiet to try and calm down.”

Even without Harry pulling her along, Violet trailed after him with no mind to be going anywhere else. They stamped up the stairs and turned along another corridor, which was particularly dark; the torches had been extinguished by a strong, icy draft that was blowing through a loose windowpane. The pair of them were halfway down the passage when Harry let out a small yelp and staggering, tripping headlong over something lying on the floor.

Violet reached out to help steady Harry and squinted at what he’d fallen over in the first place. It suddenly felt as though her stomach had dissolved.

A young boy in Hufflepuff robes was lying on the floor, rigid and cold, a look of shock frozen on his face, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. And that wasn’t all. Next to him was another figure, the strangest and more horrible sight Violet had ever seen.

It was Nearly Headless Nick, no longer pearly-white and transparent, but black and smoky, floating immobile and horizontal, six inches off the floor. His head was half off and his face wore an expression of shock identical to the boy’s.

Harry scrambled to his feet, his breathing fast and shallow as he stared at the two figures. He grabbed tightly onto Violet’s arm and looked wildly up and down the corridor. Violet couldn’t take her eyes off the frozen, terrified face of the boy. The only sounds were the muffled voices of teachers from the classes on either side.

They could run, and no one would ever know they had been there. But they couldn’t just leave them lying there . . . They had to get help . . . Would anyone believe they hadn’t had anything to do with this?

As the two of them stood there, panicking in their own ways, a door opened right next to them with a bang. Peeves the Poltergeist came shooting out.

“Why, it’s potty wee Potters!” cackled Peeves, knocking Harry’s glasses askew as he bounced past him. “What are they up to? Why are they lurking —”

Peeves stopped, halfway through a midair somersault. Upside down, he spotted the boy and Nearly Headless Nick. He flipped the right way up, filled his lungs and, before Harry or Violet could stop him, screamed, “ATTACK! ATTACK! ANOTHER ATTACK! NO MORTAL OR GHOST IS SAFE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES! ATTAAAACK!”

Crash — crash — crash — door after door flew open along the corridor and people flooded out. For several long minutes, there was a scene of such confusion that the frozen boy was in danger of being squashed and people kept sanding in Nearly Headless Nick. Violet found herself pinned against the wall as the teachers all shouted for quiet. Professor McGonagall came running, followed by her own class — one of whom was Cassius. He spotted Violet and started fighting his way toward her when Professor McGonagall used her wand to set off a loud bang, which restored silence, and ordered everyone back to their classes. Violet watched Cassius look around before ducking quickly behind an open door and hiding himself there. No sooner had the scene cleared somewhat than Ernie the Hufflepuff arrived, panting, on the scene.

“ _ Caught in the act! _ ” Ernie yelled, his face stark white, pointing his finger dramatically at Harry.

“That will do, Macmillan!” said Professor McGonagall sharply.

Peeves was bobbing overhead, now grinning wickedly, surveying the scene; Peeves always loves chaos. As the teachers bent over the boy and Nearly Headless Nick, examining them, Peeves broke into song:

 

“ _ Oh, Potters, you rotters, oh, what have you done, _

_ You’re killing off students, you think it’s good fun  _ —”

 

“That’s enough, Peeves!” barked Professor McGonagall, and Peeves zoomed away backward, with his tongue out at Harry and Violet.

The Petrified boy was carried up to the hospital wing by Professor Flitwick and Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department, but nobody seemed to know what to do for Nearly Headless Nick. In the end, Professor McGonagall conjured a large fan out of thin air, which she gave to Ernie with the instructions to waft Nearly Headless Nick up the stairs. This Ernie did, fanning Nick along like a silent black hovercraft. This left the twins and Professor McGonagall alone together.

“This way, children,” she said.

“Professor,” said Harry at once, “I swear we didn’t —”

“This is out of my hands, Potter,” said Professor McGonagall curtly.

They marched in silence around a corner — Violet glanced back and caught sight of Cassius sneaking quietly behind them, ducking from alcove to alcove — and up a short flight of stairs. They stopped before a large and extremely ugly stone gargoyle. Violet knew at once where they were being taken.

“Lemon drop!” said Professor McGonagall, which was evidently the new password, because the gargoyle sprang suddenly to life and hopped aside as a wall behind him split in two. Behind the wall was a spiral staircase that was moving smoothly upward, like an escalator. Violet had only been this way once, and she had been crying heavily and very frightened then, but there was no mistaking the set of great oak doors ahead, with a brass knocker in the shape of a griffin.

This was where Professor Dumbledore lived.


	14. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

They stepped off the stone staircase at the top, and Professor McGonagall rapped on the door. It opened silently and they entered. Professor McGonagall told Harry and Violet to wait and left them there, alone.

Violet had been in this office before, but had been in such a state of panic she’d barely been able to appreciate it. She joined Harry in looking around, his mouth hanging half open in awe.

There were things she noticed this time that she hadn’t seen before — the little silver instruments that were arranged around the room were all active now, some of them emitting little puffs of smoke. The portraits on the wall were full of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were snoozing gently in their frames. And there sat the enormous, claw-footed desk that Violet had seen Professor McGonagall sitting behind that night the year before. What she hadn’t seen, and still didn’t see until Harry gave her a small nudge and pointed it out to her; high on a shelf behind the desk sat a shabby, tattered wizard’s hat —  _ The Sorting Hat _ .

“What are you doing?” Violet hissed. Harry had stepped away from her, creeping quietly across the room toward the desk. “ _ Harry _ !”

“Shh!” Harry said as he reached out for the Sorting Hat. “I just want to try something.”

Violet watched, riddled with anxiety, as Harry plucked the ancient hat off of the shelf and lowered it onto his head. She had taken two steps toward him, ready to snatch the hat off his head and put it back where it belonged before they got into even  _ more _ trouble, when a strange, gagging noise behind her made her wheel around.

They weren’t alone after all. Standing on a golden perch behind the door was a decrepit looking bird that resembled a half-plucked turkey. Violet stared at it and the bird looked balefully back, making its gagging noise again. It was oddly familiar, and Violet realized with a start that this was the same bird she’d seen a year before in this very office. It was the red and gold bird that Professor McGonagall had used to send the letter to Dumbledore   —  only now it looked very ill. Its eyes were dull and, even as Violet watched, a couple more feathers fell out of its tail.

“Poor thing,” Violet murmured to the bird, bringing a finger up to gently stroke the top of its bald little head. Violet was just thinking that it was all they needed was for Dumbledore’s pet bird to die while they were alone in the office with it, when the bird burst into flames.

Violet yelled in shock and backed away into the desk. She looked feverishly around in case there was a glass of water somewhere but couldn’t see one; the bird, meanwhile, had become a fireball; it gave one loud shriek and the next second there was nothing but a smoldering pile of ash on the floor.

The office door opened. Dumbledore came in, looking very somber.

“Professor,” Harry gasped, immediately by Violet’s side as she gasped and stuttered. “Your bird — she didn’t do anything — it just caught fire —”

To Violet’s astonishment, Dumbledore smiled.

“About time, too,” he said. “He’s been looking dreadful for days; I’ve been telling him to get a move on.”

He chuckled at the stunned looks on the twins’ faces.

“Fawkes is a phoenix, children. Phoenixes burst into flames when it is time for them to die and are reborn from the ashes. Watch him . . .”

Violet, trembling, looked down in time to see a tiny, wrinkled, newborn bird poke its head out of the ashes. It was quite as unfortunate looking as the old one.

“It’s a shame you had to see him on a Burning Day,” said Dumbledore, seating himself behind his desk. Behind him, Violet could see the Sorting Hat, slightly more wrinkled than before, sitting back on its shelf. “He’s really very handsome most of the time, wonderful red and gold plumage. Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly  _ faithful _ pets.”

In the shock of Fawkes catching fire, Violet had forgotten what they were there for, but it all came back to her as Dumbledore settled himself in the high chair behind the desk and fixed the pair of them with his penetrating, light-blue stare. Violet fumbled for Harry’s hand beside hers and squeezed it tightly.

Before Dumbledore could speak another word, however, the door of the office flew open with an almighty bang and Hagrid burst in, a wild look in his eyes, his balaclava perched on top of his shaggy black head and the dead rooster still swinging from his hand.

“It wasn’ them, Professor Dumbledore!” said Hagrid urgently. “I was talkin’ to ‘em  _ seconds _ before that kids was found, they never had time, sir —”

Dumbledore tried to say something, but Hagrid went ranting on, waving the rooster around in his agitation, sending feathers everywhere. Violet decided in that moment that she loved Hagrid more than she had ever loved anyone besides Harry.

“— it can’ have bin them, I’ll swear it in front o’ the Ministry o’ Magic if I have to —”

“Hagrid, I —”

“— yeh’ve got the wrong kids, sir, I  _ know _ Harry an’ Violet never —”

“ _ Hagrid _ !” said Dumbledore loudly. “I do  _ not _ think that these children attacked those people.”

“Oh,” said Hagrid, the rooster falling limply at his side. “Right. I’ll wait outside then, Headmaster.”

And he stomped out looking embarrassed.

“You don’t think it was us, Professor?” Harry repeated hopefully as Dumbledore brushed rooster feathers off his desk.

“No, Harry, I don’t,” said Dumbledore, though his face was somber again. “But I still want to talk to you both.”

The twins exchanged a glance, and waited nervously while Dumbledore considered them, the tips of his long fingers together.

“I must ask you, children, whether there is anything you’d like to tell me,” he said gently. “Anything at all.”

Violet bit her lip and looked at Harry.

She knew her brother better than anyone else on earth. She knew how to read his face, how to tell when he was angry and scared and holding back laughter, and she knew, almost all of the time, when he was keeping a secret.

There were a dozen things that she and Harry ought to tell Dumbledore — Malfoy shouting “You’ll be next, Mudbloods!” and the disembodied voice Harry had heard twice, being able to speak to snakes, and the growing rumours that they were somehow related to Salazar Slytherin . . . Harry wasn’t going to say anything about any of that. He was going to stand here, right in front of this golden opportunity, and keep silent — and Violet wouldn’t stand for it.

“Harry can talk to snakes,” Violet blurted, “but I can’t do it, and everyone is saying it’s because he’s the Heir of Slytherin but  _ I’m _ the one who’s in Slytherin House and Cassius says there’s no way we could even be related to Slytherin but he was the one who could talk to snakes, too, and I don’t understand  _ how _ Harry could be the heir but I’m  _ not _ and I don’t —”

Violet heard a noise and broke off suddenly. Professor Dumbledore was chuckling.

“Sorry,” Violet said, embarrassed with herself for rambling.

“My dear girl, there’s nothing to apologize for,” said Professor Dumbledore, smiling at her. “Your concerns are very keen and inquisitive, and perfectly rational. Thank you for bringing them to me.”

Violet flushed under the praise. But to her right, Harry was looking at Violet as though she’d just struck him over the head with a broomstick. Did he really think that she would have kept her mouth shut?

“It is indeed curious,” Professor Dumbledore began, “that your brother should possess such a peculiar talent and yet you do not. And I sense your frustration with the irony that while the founder of  _ your _ House that historically exhibited such a trait, it is Harry that has it and does not appreciate it.”

“It’s not that I don’t  _ appreciate _ it,” Harry said hotly. “I just don’t understand it! How can I speak a language without learning it — without even knowing that I can speak it?”

“How indeed?” said Dumbledore quietly. His eyes gleamed curiously behind his half- moon spectacles, and he shifted his attention to Harry. “When did you first learn of this ability, Harry?”

“Last year,” said Harry. “We were at the zoo with the Dursleys and I — er — talked to a python in its enclosure —”

“ _ Boa constrictor _ ,” Violet interrupted in exasperation. “Harry, I’ve told you —”

“What does it matter what kind of snake it was, Violet?” Harry groaned. “It was big and I talked to it by accident, it said it wanted to see Brazil and —”

“Children,  _ please _ ,” Dumbledore said, still smiling but looking reproachful all the same. Both Violet and Harry shut their mouths apologetically. Professor Dumbledore went back to gazing at them curiously. “Tell me . . . are there any other gifts that one of you has, but the other does not share? Not simple talents like whistling or being able to juggle, but  _ true _ gifts?”

“Violet makes things happen sometimes,” said Harry immediately, and it was Violet’s turn to whip around at him in shock.

“Happen?” said Professor Dumbledore. “What do you mean by that, Harry?”

“At the zoo, when I was talking to the snake, she made the glass in the enclosure disappear,” Harry said. “And on the train when M- when someone was bothering us, Violet pushed them out of the compartment without touching them.”

“Is this true, Violet?” Dumbledore asked, looking back to her. Violet shot a glare at her brother but nodded all the same.

“Yes, sir . . .”

“Are there any more incidents like this that you can recall? Causing something to happen without meaning to, or using spells without speaking the words?”

“I —” Violet hesitated. “I think I broke a broom once, sir. And last week . . . at the Dueling club, there was a snake —”

“You spoke to it?”

“No, Harry did, but before that — I didn’t want it to attack him, and I think I made it stop.”

“In what way?” said Dumbledore, looking at her intently. “Was it frozen? Immobilized?”

“N-no, it was . . . I dunno, writhing around? I think I was —”

Violet paused, suddenly uncomfortable. She didn’t  _ know _ she’d done to that snake, or even that she had done anything to it at all until she’d started talking about it. It wasn’t a  _ real _ snake, or Professor Snape couldn’t have banished it into smoke like that, but the way it had moved, and how angrily it had come at her afterwards . . .

“I hurt it,” Violet whispered. She looked up at Dumbledore, desperate to make him understand. “I wasn’t trying — I didn’t  _ want _ to make it hurt, I just wanted to give Harry a chance to run away from it. But then it stopped and it started coming at me, like it knew that  _ I _ was the one who — who did that to it —”

“But I told it to leave you alone,” Harry said firmly, “and it did. That was only the second time I — er — spoke Parseltongue, professor. I didn’t know that it was weird until Ron and Hermione told me that it was, and that Salazar Slytherin could do it, too. And that’s when everyone started saying it might be  _ me _ who’s the Heir of Slytherin — but Violet’s right, how can it be me and not her?”

“Harry, I can very firmly say that the Heir of Slytherin is not  _ either _ of you,” said Professor Dumbledore. “Your friend Mr. Warrington is right, Violet — the Potter family has never had any connection to the Slytherin line through birth or through marriage. Of that I can assure you.”

Harry and Violet looked at one another in relief. If Professor Dumbledore could tell them that with certainty, then there was nothing Malfoy or Snape or anyone else could say to make them doubt it.

It wasn’t until later that evening, lying in bed and trying to fall asleep beneath the shelter of the warm blankets, that Dumbledore hadn’t really given them an explanation for anything. For Harry being able to talk with snakes, or Violet’s talent for causing ‘accidents.’ He had listened to them and offered comfort and reassurance and yet neither of them had any more answers than when they had first stepped into his office.

Violet rolled over restlessly, careful not to kick Crookshanks in the process — he’d only just started sleeping with her again.

He was a tricky one, Professor Dumbledore. Clever, kind, and very wise . . . but tricky.

 

The double attack on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick turned what had hitherto been nervousness into real panic. Curiously, it was Nearly Headless Nick’s fate that seemed to worry people most. What could possibly do that to a ghost? people asked each other; what terrible power could harm someone who was already dead? There was almost a stampede to book seats on the Hogwarts Express so that students could go home for Christmas.

“At this rate, we’ll be the only ones left,” Tracey told Violet and Cassius. “Us, your brother and his friends, and Malfoy. Can you believe  _ Malfoy _ is staying, Vi? What a jolly holiday it’s going to be.”

Crabbe and Goyle, who did whatever Malfoy did, had signed up to stay over the holidays, too. Violet was miffed in part because she’d never much been looking forward to taking over the couch in front of the fire, but also because it meant she still had to keep looking over her shoulder. Malfoy still hadn’t approached or attacked her, but the fear of such a thing lingered.

On the other hand, she and Harry were actually grateful that most people were leaving. They were tired of people skirting around them in the corridors, as though they were about to sprout fangs or spit poison; tired of all the muttering, pointing, and hissing as they passed. Violet regretted that she’d ever begrudged Harry all the attention he was getting. Now that all eyes were on her as well, all she wanted to do was sink into the floor and disappear.

Fred and George, however, found all this very funny. They went out of their way to march ahead of Harry and Violet down the corridors, taking turns with them and shouting, “Make way for the Heirs of Slytherin, seriously evil wizards coming through . . .”

Their older brother, Percy, was deeply disapproving of this behavior.

“It is  _ not _ a laughing matter,” he said coldly, stopping them in the hallway one morning.

“Oh, get out of the way, Percy,” said Fred. “Violet’s in a hurry.”

“Yeah, she’s off to the Chamber of Secrets for a cuppa with her fanged servant,” said George, chortling.

Ginny didn’t find it amusing either.

“Oh,  _ don’t _ ,” she wailed every time Fred asked Harry loudly who he was planning to attack next, or when George pretended to ward Violet off with a large clove of garlic when they met.

All this was something Violet didn’t mind, at least; it made her feel better that Fred and George thought the idea of her and Harry being Slytherin’s heirs was quite ludicrous. But their antics seemed to be aggravating Draco Malfoy, who looked increasingly sour each time he saw them at all.

“It’s because he’s  _ bursting _ to say it’s really him,” Cassius drawled with grim satisfaction. “You know how he hates anyone beating him at anything, and you’re getting all the attention for something he wishes he could say was his doing.”

“If he wants to confess, that’s just fine by me,” Violet said, flipping through the morning’s  _ Daily Prophet _ . “It’s his own fault for being an idiot.”

 

At last the term ended, and a silence deep as the snow on the grounds descended on the castle. Violet found it peaceful, rather than gloomy, and enjoyed the fact that she and Tracey had the girl’s dormitory all to themselves, which meant they could play Exploding Snap without bothering anyone, and practice dueling in private. 

Violet had followed Professor Flitwick’s advice and gently bullied Cassius into teaching her some of the higher level spells he knew. The most fun and useful by far was the “Seize and Pull Charm”; Violet and Tracey delighted in shooting a bright red rope of magic at an object (they’d been practicing with their Lockhart books, stood up in rows) and yanking their arms backward, bringing the item with them. Violet gave herself a cut lip by pulling too hard and hitting herself in the face with Tracey’s copy of  _ Gadding with Ghouls _ , and Tracey very nearly grabbed Crookshanks by mistake. 

In the end, the three of them collapsed into a pile of laughter, bruised and battered and wand-arms aching from overexertion. Later, Cassius resolved to teach them both the Mending Charm.

Christmas morning dawned, cold and white. Violet, who was sound asleep and dreaming of swinging from the rafters of the Great Hall with a magical red rope, was woken abruptly as Tracey’s full weight landed on top of her.

“Violet!” Tracey yelled brightly, bouncing on the fluffy mattress. “Wake up, Violet! It’s Christmas! We’re missing Christmas!”

“How could we miss it?” Violet grumbled sleepily. She groaned loudly and curled into a ball when Tracey yanked the covers clean off of her. 

“Come  _ on _ , sleepyhead! Don’t you want to open your presents?”

Violet sat up, suddenly wide awake.

“Yes,” she said to a grinning Tracey. “Yes, I do.”

The first present Violet opened was from Tracey, who pulled it out from beneath her pillow — she’d been crafting again, far more ambitiously than before. Violet was amazed by the small, beaded lizard she unwrapped; it was purple and yellow, with two little black beads for eyes, and a circular clasp was attached to its mouth so that Violet could clip it onto her book bag, which she immediately did. Her own gift to Tracey was a set of two plastic hair clips, shaped like butterflies and covered in glitter.

Cassius wasn’t in the common room yet when the girls got dressed and left their room. The two of them stood at the top of the stairs leading into the boy’s dormitory, loudly calling his name until finally, disheveled and still in his pajamas, Cassius stomped up the stairs to meet them with a set of presents under his arm. He, too, received a beaded lizard from Tracey, and seemed pleased with the simple weekly planner that Violet had gotten him. In turn, flushing and mumbling about not knowing what to get them, Cassius presented both girls with boxes of assorted sweets and chocolates. Violet, who was never allowed any sweets at all at the Dursley’s, was delighted.

The rest of Violet’s Christmas presents were wonderful as well. Hagrid had sent her a tiny wooden whistle carved in the shape of a hound, which made a ghostly little warble when blown, and the largest present contained a new, hand-knitted sweater from Mrs. Weasley and a large plum cake. Violet read her card with a fresh surge of guilt, thinking about Mr. Weasley’s car (which hadn’t been seen since its crash with the Whomping Willow).

 

There was nothing in the world that could have stopped Violet from enjoying Christmas dinner at Hogwarts.

The Great Hall looked magnificent. Not only were there a dozen frost-covered Christmas trees and thick streamers of holly and mistletoe crisscrossing the ceiling, but enchanted snow was falling, warm and dry, from the ceiling. Dumbledore led them in a few of his favourite carols, Hagrid booming more and more loudly with every goblet of eggnog he consumed.

Violet made an appearance at the nearly-empty Gryffindor table and was greeted with cheers and open arms not only from Harry but all the Weasleys as well. Fred and George pressed a loosely wrapped package into her hands, which turned out to be an opened, nearly empty box of Sugar Quills. There was only one left.

“Mum sent enough for each of us kids,” Fred said.

“But Precious Percy didn’t want his, so we’re giving to you!” said George. “Hope you like lime.”

“I do, actually,” Violet said, grinning.

Harry had a gift for her as well — while he opened the small glasses repair kit Violet had gotten him, she peeled back the paper covering a brand new hairbrush, comb, and a small, matching mirror. They were simple, practical gifts, but the thoughtfulness of it meant the world to her. At the Dursleys, the pair of them were rarely able to exchange proper gifts. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had, over the years, given them such horrible things as a pack of toothpicks, a pair of knobbly old socks to share between them, and a single coat hanger. Dudley had never given either of them a present, though of course the twins were expected to get him something for every Christmas and birthday.

But the Dursleys weren’t here now — it was Christmas, they were at Hogwarts, and they were surrounded by friends and people who cared about them. It was the best sort of present that Violet could have ever asked for.


	15. The Very Secret Diary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

As much as Violet enjoyed having the free time to spend goofing off with her friends, she was pleased when the Christmas holidays came to an end and everyone returned to school. She’d missed the noise and the classes, and had begun to get bored once all their winter home- work had been completed. Fortunately — or rather,  _ un _ fortunately — once the new term started, all of their teachers had begun piling the assignments on. Professor Binns wanted them to read not one but  _ three _ books on the subject of international wizarding associations and their influence on modern wizard politics,  _ and _ expected at least three feet of parchment on the subject; not only that, but Professors McGonagall and Snape had given them so much homework, Violet thought she was likely to be in the sixth year before she finished it.

Violet had also made a point of showing Professor Flitwick that she’d followed his advice after all and started learning new Charms outside of class. He was just as delighted by her mastery of  _ Carpe Retractum _ as Violet was herself, and she was on her way to his office to show off her newly learned Mending Charm when something small and orange bowled straight into her and knocked her off of her feet.

“ _ Oof! _ ” Violet said, landing hard on her bottom. “Hey, watch where you’re —”

A familiar freckled face peered back at her in horror from between curtains of bright red hair. It was Ginny Weasley who had run into Violet. She was crying.

“S-sorry,” Ginny squeaked, sticking out a trembling hand to help Violet up. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean — I didn’t see you —”

“It’s alright,” Violet said gently as she was pulled to her feet. “It was an accident, I’m not hurt. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

“No!” Ginny said quickly. She took a step back, away from Violet, her expression furtive. “I’m — I’m okay. I was just —”

Whatever she was about to say was drowned out by a sudden, shrill wailing from the corridor beyond. There was a loud and metallic  _ clang _ followed by the sound of rushing water. Ginny’s face went white.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, staring back down the hallway. “No, no,  _ no _ . . .”

Confused and concerned — the wailing had only gotten louder, and there was even more clanging now — Violet reached out and grabbed hold of Ginny’s hand.

“C’mon,” she said when Ginny whipped around to look at her in alarm. “Let’s get you out of her before Filch arrives.”

She gave Ginny’s hand a tug, and two girls ran quickly and quietly away from the second floor. Violet didn’t know what sweet little Ginny could have possibly done to cause such a violent reaction, but she didn’t think they needed to stick around and find out.

Violet didn’t stop running until they were three floors up on the other side of the school. Both she and Ginny were winded and panting, finally dropping their joined, sweaty hands to better catch their breath. The shouts and crashes had faded far behind them and now the two of them were alone just beneath the Astronomy Tower. Ginny, who hadn’t stopped crying all the time they were running, let out a sob and sank to the floor with her back to the stone wall. She drew her knees to her chest and curled into a little ball beneath the window. Violet immediately sank down beside her.

“Hey . . .” she said gently, unsure exactly what to do. “It’s alright, you’re not in trouble for — for whatever happened . . . It’ll be okay, Ginny . . .”

“You don’t understand,” Ginny cried thickly, “it’s  _ my _ fault . . . it’s all my fault . . .”

She looked up suddenly, her eyes wild.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Ginny said. “Please —  _ please _ , don’t tell anyone —”

“I don’t even know what’s going on,” Violet said, bewildered. “Ginny — what happened to you? Are you hurt, or —”

Ginny shook her head fiercely, sending flaming hair fanning out in all directions.

“No, I’m okay now. I got rid of it, so it’s okay.”

“Got rid of  _ what _ ?”

Ginny’s expression turned terrified. She shrank away from Violet, eyes wide as she peered over the tops of her knees. Violet put both hands up and tried to make herself appear as non-threatening as possible. She’d never been in this situation before — at least, not on this side of it. Usually she was the one curled up and crying, and now she was racking her brain to remember the ways Harry usually went about calming her down.

“Ginny,” said Violet, “it’s okay. You’re safe, and I’m not going to hurt you. But I’m not going to leave you all alone, either.”

Cautiously, Violet reached out and put a hand on Ginny’s shoulder; she couldn’t tell which of them was shaking.

“I’ll listen if you want to talk about it,” Violet said gently. “Or we can just sit here, if you like?”

Ginny didn’t respond. She was breathing quickly and shallowly, her small body occasionally wracked by a silent sob. She didn’t pull away from Violet’s hand on her shoulder so she left it there and settled down on the floor, waiting for Ginny to calm down and be able to speak.

Roughly ten minutes passed — Violet kept track the way she always had, by counting the beats of her own heart — before there was any movement between them at all. At last, Ginny took a deep breath and raised her head. Her freckled face was no longer wet with tears, though her eyes were still very red from crying, and she looked up at Violet with a shy expression.

“Thanks,” Ginny said quietly. Violet gave her a small smile.

“Any time.”

“You promise not to tell anyone about this?” said Ginny, and Violet nodded.

“Promise. Your secrets are safe with me.”

She’d meant for her words to be reassuring, but Ginny only looked even more troubled.

“I should have said something when it started,” she muttered, staring distantly at the wall opposite them. “I  _ tried _ to talk to Ron about it, but then Percy butted in and I can’t say  _ anything _ around him without him writing home to Mum about it . . . I wanted to talk to Fred and George, but they’re not taking anything seriously lately. Ron always listens, but lately all he does is spend time with Harry . . . sorry, I didn’t mean — that’s not bad, Harry’s wonderful — I  _ mean _ —”

“It’s hard to talk to your brother without  _ my _ brother hanging around,” Violet said patiently. “Believe me, I get it.”

Ginny gave her a weak, brief smile.

“I haven’t really made any friends yet,” she said. “There aren’t many girls in my year, and they all made friends with each other first, and none of the boys want to be my friend because I’m a  _ girl _ . . . Hardly anybody speaks to me, except —”

Ginny’s face went pale suddenly, and she shivered as through she’d just stepped through a ghost. Her eyes darted quickly to Violet.

“Do you keep a diary, Violet?” Ginny asked.

“No,” said Violet. “I’ve wanted to, but I was always scared the Dursleys would find it and read it and be angry with me for keeping it from them, so I never got around to it. And we weren’t really allowed our own pens or paper or anything . . .”

She broke off as Ginny’s face scrunched up — that wasn’t the sort of thing Violet was supposed to tell other people about, according to Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. She and Harry weren’t to say anything about where they slept or what they didn’t have. Even knowing they were far away and couldn’t hurt her, Violet was uncomfortable revealing such things.

“Do  _ you _ keep a diary?” she asked Ginny, changing the subject. Ginny nodded, once; more of a funny little twitch of her head than anything.

“Yes,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper. “Only — I filled it up after the first month at school. I was so excited about everything, I wanted to write it all down and remember it forever and I wasn’t thinking about how many pages were left. So I ran out of room and I started a new one, but — but —”

Ginny shivered and shrank in on herself again.

“I don’t know where it came from,” said Ginny, her voice very small and partly muffled by her own knees. “I found it with my other books but I don’t remember Mum or Dad buying it. But it was empty, so I — I started writing my name and everything on the first page and . . .”

Behind the curtains of her hair, Violet could see Ginny’s wide eyes staring blankly at nothing, as though lost in her own mind. When next she spoke, her words were so quiet that Violet had to strain to hear them.

“ _ It started talking back. _ ”

“ _ Talking _ ?” Violet said. “The book spoke to you?”

“Not out loud,” said Ginny, trembling again. “Whenever I wrote something, the page would start writing back to me. Words just showed up, even though no one but me was there. I wrote down, ‘My name is Ginny Weasley,’ and at first I thought something was wrong with the book because the words just disappeared and then — then  _ different _ words started showing up. It wasn’t my handwriting.”

“Did you recognize it?” Violet asked swiftly. A talking book sounded an awful lot like a prank, and there was no one she knew who was better at pranks than Ginny’s very own older brothers, Fred and George. But Ginny shook her head at once and said:

“His name is Tom Riddle,” she murmured, as though the words didn’t want to come out of her mouth. And then everything started coming out in a rush. “His name was on the cover, but I didn’t know what it was. And he —  _ Tom _ started talking to me. Asking me about my day, and my family. I was scared at first, Mum and Dad always told me not to talk to strangers but — but he  _ wasn’t _ he a stranger. He was my friend. He listened to everything I told him about how lonely I was and how I’m scared I won’t make any friends, and Fred and George and Ron and Percy hardly pay attention to me anymore and  _ Harry _ —”

She sucked in a breath and looked at Violet with panic in her eyes. Violet smiled in what she hoped was an understanding manner; it’d been obvious from their time at the Burrow that Ginny adored Harry, or at least the idea of him. Violet couldn’t understand  _ why _ — Harry was a skinny little idiot who never did what he was told — but surely that was just because she was his sister. While Harry must have been something wonderful to Ginny, to her he was just  _ Harry _ .

“That sounds lovely, though, Ginny,” Violet finally said. “A friend you could carry around in your pocket and talk to whenever you want!”

She had meant to sound encouraging, but Ginny’s response was to go pale and seize up again.

“That’s what I thought, too, at first,” said Ginny quietly. “And I  _ did _ bring him everywhere — even in class we would talk and he would help me with some of the questions, and with homework . . . he told me it was okay when I was worried it was cheating . . . he really made me feel like I wasn’t alone, and he cared about me but —”

Ginny squeezed her eyes shut as fresh tears began sliding down her cheeks.

“But he then he started getting angry with me and — and I started feeling sick and getting dizzy and forgetting things — how I got somewhere, or who I’d been talking to . . . I didn’t know what was going on and when I told Tom about he told me I was imagining things but I  _ knew _ I wasn’t —”

Violet was starting not to like the sound of this Tom Riddle. Ginny was plainly terrified and upset just talking about him, and the idea of a friendly magical item turning hostile was a chilling thought.

“Ginny . . . where is the diary now?” Violet asked.

“I threw it away,” Ginny sniffled fiercely. “I  _ destroyed _ it so I’ll never have to talk to him again and neither will anyone else.”

“Is that what all the clanging was back there?”

Ginny nodded.

“I flushed it down a toilet,” she said, her face going slightly pink. “I think Moaning Myrtle might have been hiding in it, though . . .”

“Oh, dear . . . that would explain all the shrieking.”

“She reminds me of the ghoul in the attic at home,” said Ginny, “only with more crying. I don’t know if I could stand it if the ghoul started crying . . .”

“I don’t suppose you could just hand it a handkerchief, could you?”

“Not without it using it to clog up the pipes later . . .”

The two girls looked at each other, nodding seriously, and then began to giggle. Small chuckles at first, which graduated to full, proper laughing, letting go of all the tension that had been hanging between them during their talk. Ginny’s tears had finally dried and her posture gradually opened up from her tightly-curled ball against the wall. Violet watched as she wiped her face down with the sleeve of her jumper, and then opened her arms wide in invitation. Ginny barely hesitated before leaning forward and returning the hug. It was only a brief squeeze and a bit awkward for both of them, but it had felt like the right thing to do in the moment.

“You really won’t tell anyone, will you?” said Ginny as they pulled apart, looking slightly nervous once more. “Not even Harry — he’ll tell Ron, and then Ron will tell Percy and Percy will tell  _ Mum _ and —”

“Pinkie promise,” Violet cut in, sticking out the little finger on her left hand. Ginny stared at it. “You’re, er . . . supposed to shake it.”

Still looking at her funny, Ginny crooked her own pinkie and linked their fingers together. Violet gave their hands a gentle shake and let go. She smiled warmly at Ginny.

“It’ll be our secret.”

 

So much had happened since the start of Christmas break that Violet had almost forgotten she was supposed to be in trouble. It came as a nasty reminder when, at the end of their first Potions class of the term, Professor Snape held her back to inform her that her detentions would be resumed.

Violet’s mood was soured for the rest of the day. She sulked her way through the rest of her lessons and had a good cry during a spare period, with Tracey there all the while to hold her hand and tell off anyone who tried to come ask what was wrong. Although the matter of who’d fouled up Neville’s potion had been solved, Violet was still being held accountable for lying to the teachers about it.

At eight o’clock that night, stomach churning with nerves and threatening to expel what little dinner she’d been able to get down in the first place, Violet made the long, lonely walk down to the Potions classroom by herself. The door was ajar when she arrived, though Professor Snape was nowhere in sight. Violet had expected a pile of filthy cauldrons to be waiting for her, but the classroom seemed to be perfectly in order. Perhaps Snape had forgotten about her detention?

Nervously, unsure of whether or not she should just leave and hope for the best, Violet stepped quietly into the classroom. Faintly, the sound of popping bubbles reached her ears.

She was wrong about it being completely in order. At the front of the room was Professor Snape’s large wooden desk, where he would often call up the class to observe his demonstrations. There was a large cauldron sitting on it, bubbling away with a small blue flame flickering beneath it. Curious, Violet peered over the lip of the cauldron to see what was brewing inside.

“I would advise against that, Potter,” said a sharp voice from behind her.

Violet jerked back from the cauldron and whirled around — Professor Snape was now standing in the doorway of the classroom, glaring at her. He had a battered wooden crate tucked under one arm; the door shut with a snap behind him as he strode toward the front of the room.

“Don’t go sticking your nose into places it shouldn’t be,” warned Professor Snape — he shooed Violet aside and set the crate down on the desk in front of her. “Unless you’re prepared to lose it, of course. Bubbling cauldrons are known to splash.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Violet said. She watched anxiously as Snape began to unpack the crate, pulling out a stone mortar and pestle, a set of very fine copper scales, and, most alarmingly, an old leather roll that contained an assortment of wicked looking knives. Violet swallowed hard. “Did I miss my detention, sir?”

“This  _ is _ your detention, Potter,” Professor Snape said, giving her a sidelong glance as he arranged the supplies around the cauldron. “Thanks to the unfortunate events that have plagued this school, my stores have suffered as I’ve had little time to restock them. I  _ still _ have little time to bother with some of the simpler concoctions. Which is where you come in.”

Violet looked up with Snape’s sour expression with wide-eyed confusion. Was he going to test potions on her to make sure they worked?

“Due to your  _ dishonesty _ ,” he began, drawing out the word to make it sting all the more, “I’m forced to take even more of my limited time to see that you’re held accountable. Are you familiar with the expression, ‘killing two birds with one stone?’”

Violet nodded jerkily. Was Snape going to  _ kill _ her? Her stomach did a horrible flip as Professor Snape gestured to the bubbling cauldron, the array of knives, and the collection of bottles and jars that she could see still sitting inside the crate.

“Your job is to do what I tell you,” said Professor Snape. “You will fetch the ingredients I name and prepare them as I instruct. I don’t have time to put up with any foolish questions or inane comments, Potter, so keep them to yourself and get on with your task. First: get me a bundle of sneezewort.”

Violet, shocked and not comprehending what was going on, stood stock still and stared. Snape scowled at her and pointed to the crate.

“ _ Now _ .”

At being given an order, Violet’s limbs snapped into motion. The Dursleys had well trained her to do as she was told, and her hands only shook a little as they carefully rifled through the collection of containers Professor Snape had prepared. Each glass jar and bottle was carefully marked with a little paper label, though the spiky scrawl was difficult to make out at times. After what felt like an eternity and with Snape’s black eyes boring into her all the while, Violet finally located a jar bearing the label  _ Sneezewort, Dried _ . She held it up to Professor Snape.

“Congratulations,” he sneered, “you’ve mastered the art of reading. I asked for a bundle, did I not? Open it.”

Violet’s hands were trembling so bad she could barely keep hold of the jar. It took three awkward, fumbling attempts to pry the wide cork from the top of the jar — inside, tied into neat little bouquets, were five bundles of dried flowers held together in groups of four. Violet’s fingers were trembling so hard she couldn’t grasp anything. With Snape’s expectant gaze on her, she clenched her left hand into a tight fist, held it to the count of five, then let go and grabbed hold of a group of fragile stems. She pulled the bundle out and held it up.

“Finally,” Snape said, though the scowl had left his face. He pointed to the mortar and pestle. “Remove the stems and discard them. Crush the head of the flower into a fine powder.”

Violet stepped up to the desk and did as she was instructed. The end of the pestle was rough and chipped, as though it had been used many a time to break down much harder materials than the petals of a dried flower. Crushing them proved more difficult that Violet expected, however — the heads were full of small brown seeds that kept slipping out from beneath the head of the pestle and skipping around the bowl, making it hard to get everything ground to the same consistency. She kept working at it, focused on getting the powder as fine as possible before stepping back to let Professor Snape lean over to inspect her work.

“Passable,” he commented, but reached out and took the mortar all the same. With a practiced flick of his wrist he dumped the powder into the bubbling cauldron, which sputtered and changed from nondescript bluish-grey to a muddy orange. Apparently that was supposed to happen because Snape didn’t shout at her. He pointed back to the crate of ingredients.

“Find the flabbergasted leeches,” he ordered, and Violet went back to sorting through the bottles and jars. Her hands were steadier now, but she couldn’t hold back the grimace when she found what she was looking for — a large, green glass jar containing a thick liquid, suspended in which was a mass of fat, slimy black leeches.

“What makes them flabbergasted?” Violet asked, peering at the dead little creatures as she held up the jar to the light.

“Did I not say to keep quiet?” Snape snapped. Violet immediately shut her mouth and set the jar back down on the table. “This potion calls for three leeches, skinned and de-toothed. You will have to drain them as well.”

Violet stared up at Professor Snape in horror. He looked pointedly at the roll of knives.

“I would suggest you start with the draining. It reduces mess during the skinning process.”

For the next forty horrible minutes, Professor Snape passively instructed and corrected Violet’s attempts at figuring out how to prepare the flabbergasted leeches for the potion. She popped the first two, getting sticky black blood all over her hands and staining the cutting board, meaning she had to clean up and start over — on the third attempt, she pierced the leech in the correct place and was able to catch the contents of its stomach in a little bowl and leave the rest of her workstation clean.

The de-toothing process was as disgusting as it was tedious. Each leech had dozens and dozens of tiny, razor sharp little teeth arranged in rings at one end of their little black bodies, and they had to be individual plucked and scraped from the head before they were able to be used. Violet had collected a neat, sticky little pile at the corner of her cutting board — she couldn’t help but think it resembled a mashed blackberry, full of seeds.

The hardest part of the skinning process turned out to be picking the right knife. Snape’s quiet tutting and hums were the only guidance Violet received as her hands hovered over the selection of blades. Finally, she correctly chose a small, short knife with a large blade that curled back to form a sort of semi-circle. It was very sharp and she made short work of the leeches. They didn’t disgust her nearly as much as they had at the start, and Professor Snape’s small nod and lack of biting critique told Violet that she’d done well.

And so the process went for several more hours — Snape would name an ingredient and tell her what to do with it and Violet would do her best to comply. She would pass the ingredients to Professor Snape to be added to the cauldron, and every so often he would step in to stir the mixture or adjust the intensity of the flame beneath it. By eleven o’clock, the potion had achieved the consistency of gravy and had the colour of dirty dishwater. This was supposedly how it was meant to be, because Professor Snape gave it the final series of stirs with an expression of satisfaction. He extinguished the blue flames beneath the cauldron with a wordless flick of his wand and quickly began to ladle small measures of the mixture into about a dozen small, identical bottles.

“That’s all for tonight, Potter,” he said at last, after Violet had stood there watching him for a few minutes. He turned his head to look at her, holding up one of the bottles of the batch. “Do you know what this is?”

Violet opened her mouth to say “No, sir,” then remembered she wasn’t meant to speak. She shook her head instead. Snape pushed the little bottle into her hands and turned away again.

“Find out. Consider that an assignment. You can go now, Potter — I’ll send word when it’s time for your next lesson.”

Violet was halfway across the entrance hall, the warm bit of potion clenched in her first, before she realized that Snape hadn’t said ‘detention.’

 

As the term went on, about once a week or so Violet would receive a note from Professor Snape ordering her down to the Potions classroom for another evening of detention. He hadn’t referred to these sessions as ‘lessons’ again, but not had Violet forgotten about the little slip.

At the end of each grueling brew, during which she was given all manner of tasks to do ranging from tedious to menial to downright disgusting, Violet was given a small sample of whatever it was she’d help prepare and told to find out what it was and report back at the start of their next meeting. She’d started keeping notes on all her ‘lessons’ back in her dormitory, and had already amassed several pages of proper techniques and notations on how to handle certain ingredients.

The first potion turned out to be — after scouring through her course books for the list of familiar ingredients — a Confusing Concoction. Violet kept all the little bottles of her work lined up on the table beside her bed, and she now had a sample of some Hiccoughing Solution, a Rejuicing Potion that she had struggled with until well past midnight, and a Fatiguing Fusion that Professor Snape had made her wear a mask over her mouth and nose to work with to keep her from falling asleep and collapsing straight into the cauldron.

Privately, Violet knew that she was being given a great treat and opportunity. Working directly with Professor Snape on such advanced potions couldn’t be a chance given to just anyone, and it was a secret she held close to her chest for fear of these lessons being revoked. She followed Snape’s lead in referring to such sessions as ‘detentions,’ and made herself look appropriately guilty and unhappy whenever she left her friends to attend them. Even Harry wasn’t let in on the truth.

 

The sun had now begun to shine weakly on Hogwarts again. Inside the castle, the mood had grown more hopeful. There had been no more attacks since those on Justin and Nearly Headless Nick, and Madam Pomfrey was pleased to report that the Mandrakes were becoming moody and secretive, meaning that they were fast leaving childhood.

“The moment their acnes clears up, they’ll be ready for repotting again,” Violet heard her telling Filch kindly one afternoon. “And after than, it won’t be long until we’re cutting them up and stewing them. You’ll have Mrs. Norris back in no time.”

Perhaps the Heir of Slytherin had lost their nerve, thought Violet. It must be getting riskier and riskier to open the chamber of Secrets, with the school so alert and suspicious. Perhaps the monster, whatever it was, was even now settling itself down to hibernate for another fifty years . . .

Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff didn’t take this cheerful view. He was still convinced that Harry was the guilty one, that he had “given himself away” at the Dueling Club, and Violet was his scheming accomplice. Peeves wasn’t helping matters; he kept popping up in the crowded corridors singing, “Oh, Potters, you rotters . . .” now with a dance routine to match.

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to think he himself had made the attacks stop. Violet overheard him telling Professor McGonagall so while the Slytherins were lining up for Transfiguration.

“I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble, Minerva,” he said, tapping his nose knowingly and winking. “I think the Chamber has been locked for good this time. The culprit must have known it was only a matter of time before I caught him. Rather sensible to stop now, before I came down hard on him.

“You know, what the school needs now is a morale-booster. Wash away the memories of the last term! I won’t say any more just now, but I think I know just the thing . . .”

He tapped his nose again and strode off.

Lockhart’s idea of a morale-booster became clear at breakfast time on February fourteenth. Violet and Tracey had been woken up early by much screeching and giggling in the common room (several older students had presented one another with flowers and declarations of love), and headed down the Great Hall hand in hand and thinking only of breakfast. Violet thought, for a moment, that they had walked through the wrong doors.

The walls were all covered with large, lurid pink flowers. Worse still, heart-shaped confetti was falling from the pale blue ceiling. The girls went over to the Slytherin table, where Cassius was sitting hunched over his bowl of porridge to stop confetti from getting into it. His face was nearly as pink as the flowers.

“What’s going on?” Tracey asked him, grinning as Violet started half-heartedly brushing confetti out of his hair.

Cassius pointed to the teachers’ table, apparently too mortified to speak. Lockhart, wearing lurid pink robes to match the decorations, was waving for silence. The teachers on either side of him were looking stony-faced. From where she sat, Violet could see a muscle going in Professor McGonagall’s cheek. Professor Snape looked as though someone had just fed him a large beaker of Skele-Gro.

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lockhart shouted. “And may I think the forty-six people who have so far sent me cards! Yes, I have taken the liberty of arranging this little surprise for you all — and it doesn’t end here!”

Lockhart clapped his hands and through the doors to the entrance hall marched a dozen surly-looking dwarfs. Not just any dwarfs, however. Lockhart had them all wearing golden wings and carrying harps.

“My friendly, card-carrying cupids!” beamed Lockhart. “They will be roving around the school today delivering your valentines! And the fun doesn’t stop here! I’m sure my colleagues will want to enter into the spirit of the occasion! Why not ask Professor Snape to show you how to whip up a Love Potion! And while you’re at it, Professor Flitwick knows more about Entrancing Enchantments than any wizard I’ve ever met, the sly old dog!”

Professor Flitwick buried his hands in his hands. Professor Snape was looking as though the first person to ask him for a Love Potion would be force-fed poison.

“This is amazing,” Tracey breathed, looking around at all the bright colours, the decorations, apparently seeing straight through all the embarrassed, miserable faces around her. She suddenly let out a squeal and seized Violet’s arm. “Oh, Violet! I wonder if we’ll get any valentines!”

Cassius made a funny choking noise, and it took a moment to realize that he really  _ was _ choking. Violet panicked and gave him a firm slap on the back — Cassius spat out a half-chewed ball of paper confetti and came up laughing.

All day long, the dwarfs kept barging into their classes to deliver valentines, to the annoyance of teachers and most everyone else. Every time one of the grim-looking fellows burst in Tracey would sit up hopefully in her seat, but unfortunately none were given to her. Pansy Parkinson got one, and a very baffled Suzanna Runcorn was given  _ three _ . Personally, Violet was very happy that none of the little fellows had so much as looked in her direction. It was already jarring enough to know that her teachers were invested in her wellbeing — she couldn’t begin to imagine how she might feel if someone were to confess that they  _ liked _ her.

They were packing up to leave the Charms classroom — Violet had hung back, planning to ask Professor Flitwick about whatever Entrancing Enchantments were, if only to see his reaction — when a scuffle could be heard from the corridor outside. Violet abandoned her mission and joined Tracey at the door, peering out to see what was going on.

What she saw, tragically, was her own brother sprawled on the door, covered in ink and being sat on by a very frustrated looking “cupid.”

“Harry!” Violet shouted, trying to push through and help him up. Harry didn’t hear her, however, because the dwarf had begun to sing:

 

_ “His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad,  _

_ His hair is a dark as a blackboard. _

_ I wish he was mine, he’s really divine, _

_ The hero who conquered the Dark Lord.” _

 

Violet froze in place, mouth hanging open as laughter broke out all around. Harry was laughing as well, but she could plainly see the panic in her brother’s eyes. In the crowd of first years Violet caught sight of the horrified, bright red face of Ginny Weasley, staring at Harry and the singing dwarf in absolute mortification.

“Off you go, off you go,” broke in another familiar voice as Percy Weasley stepped forward, shooing some of the younger students away. “The bell rang five minutes ago, off to class, now. “And  _ you _ , Malfoy —”

Violet, glancing over, saw Malfoy stoop and snatch up something from the scattered pile of Harry’s things. Leering, he showed it to Crabbe and Goyle, and Violet realized it was a book of some sort. It was small and black, and looked rather like a diary. But that was odd, because Harry didn’t keep a —

Her eyes shot back to Ginny; she was staring between the diary and Harry, looking terrified. At once, Violet knew what that book was.

“Give that back,” she heard Harry sat as he got back to his feet.

“Wonder what Potter’s written in this?” said Malfoy loudly, holding the book dramatically so the people around him could see.

“Hand it over, Malfoy,” said Percy sternly.

“When I’ve had a look,” said Malfoy, waving the diary tauntingly at Harry.

Percy said, “As school prefect —” but Harry had clearly lost his temper. Violet rushed forward as he went to draw his wand and grabbed hold of his wrist before he could get himself into trouble.

“He said  _ give it back _ ,” Violet snapped at Malfoy, thrusting her hand toward him. She had only meant to reach out with her hand out for the book to be placed into, but as Violet reached toward Malfoy there was a bright flash of scarlet light. A bright red rope of light shot out and hit the book, snatching it out of Malfoy’s hand and yanking it back into Violet’s palm.

“Violet!” said Percy loudly. “No magic in the corridors. I’ll have to report this, you know!”

But Violet didn’t care. She was too busy staring at her own hand — her palm tingled slightly, and the book in her hand was slightly warm to the touch. Her wand was still in her pocket.

“Thanks, Vi,” Harry said from beside her, and before she could stop him he had plucked the diary from her fingers and tucked it inside the remains of his book bag. “I’ll see you at dinner, yeah?”

And then he hurried off into the classroom, and Violet found herself being hurried away by Percy Weasley and the rest of the shuffling crowd. She saw Ginny again, now white- faced and wide-eyed, staring off into Professor Flitwick’s class.

 

Violet did  _ not _ end up seeing Harry at dinner that night. She didn’t see anyone at dinner, because she spent the evening in the infirmary with Tracey after an incident during Transfiguration class.

Professor McGonagall was teaching them all how to turn animals into goblets. Most students were provided with a trained raven to practice on, but some had chosen to bring their own pets to class. Millicent Bullstrode’s cat was a sleek black tom with piercing green eyes and a single white paw. Violet was used to seeing him around the girl’s dormitory, and had even caught him and Crookshanks napping together near the fire once or twice. Usually the cat was quite docile — unfortunately, it didn’t seem to like the thought of being transformed into a cup. Fighting to hold the animal still on top of her desk, Millicent had missed with her spell and instead hit Tracey in the back of the head.

McGonagall had her rushed to the hospital wing and Madam Pomfrey was fortunately able to restore her face to its proper shape, but the strange, metallic consistency of her skin proved trickier to be rid of. Violet sat with Tracey, keeping her spirits up while they waited for the colour to start coming back to her face.

Cassius was kind enough to smuggle in two whole turkey legs and a plate of stuffing from dinner for them to share while Madam Pomfrey wasn’t looking, and even stayed to chat until Tracey was cleared to leave.

The three of them made their way back down to the Slytherin dungeons at half past ten, chatting quietly and moaning about how much homework time they’d lost out on. They were about twenty feet away from the stretch of wall that contained the entrance to the Slytherin common room when, out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw something move from the shadows.

“Violet?” said a small, familiar voice. Rising from her cross-legged position on the ground was Ginny Weasley, looking fretful and cold.

“Ginny!” Violet exclaimed, helping her to her feet. “What are you doing down here?”

“Sorry — I know I shouldn’t be, but I — I had to talk to you, and I didn’t know where your common room was so I was waiting for somebody to come and ask them to get you . . .”

“Have you been down here all night?” Cassius asked, incredulous. Ginny nodded timidly. She was visibly shivering.

“You two go on ahead,” Violet said, looking to Tracey and Cassius as she put an arm around Ginny’s shoulders to try and warm her up. “I think I know what this is about, and we need to talk in private.”

“Oh,” Tracey said. She looked slightly hurt. “I mean, if you’re sure . . .”

“Ginny, right?” said Cassius. Again, Ginny nodded. Cassius lifted his hands and put them on both sides of his own head. “Cover your ears for a minute, would you mind?”

Ginny looked at Violet, who gave her a nod of uncertain assurance, and slowly raised her own hands to mimic Cassius’ actions. Cassius grabbed Tracey’s arm and pulled her further up the corridor and whispered the password to the Slytherin common room. He pushed Tracey inside and, with a curt little wave back at Violet, stepped inside himself. This left Ginny and Violet alone in the dark hallway, staring awkwardly after him. After a moment Ginny let her hands drop back to her side.

“Harry has the diary,” said Ginny urgently. “We’ve got to get it away from him. I didn’t know what else to do — H-how did he get it, I thought I  _ ruined _ it —”

“I know, I saw it,” Violet broke in. “I tried to take it when Malfoy was messing with it but Harry took it back before I could warn him. If you talk to him tonight and tell him what it is then he’ll have to —”

“ _ No! _ ” Ginny hissed. “I can’t — can’t just go up and — No, no, then he’ll know it was me, he’ll know what I’ve  _ done _ —” Her expression turned desperate. “You can do it, Violet, you can make Harry give it to you before he gets hurt.”

“Why would he give it to me? Ginny, he might not not even know what it is, alright? Harry’s never kept a diary, he’s never cared about writing thoughts and feelings down like that. He probably hasn’t even opened it.”

“Then why would he be carrying it around?” Ginny said. “Even if he doesn’t know  _ now _ , he could find out! Even if he starts writing notes from class in it, Tom will write back and then — then —”

Angry, frightened tears welled up in Ginny’s brown eyes. She scrubbed at her eyes, trembling all over like she had during their conversation before. Again, Violet was left at a loss. She was so used to being the one who felt helpless, who cried and broke down in front of others. Harry almost never cried. He tried to hide it from her when he did, and Violet had never had much of an occasion to comfort somebody else. It was always her in need of comfort, but now . . .

“Ginny,” she said quietly, “I can’t just go up to Harry and tell him to give me the diary. He’ll want to know where I learned about it and why I want it, and I’ll have to tell him because I’m not going to lie to my brother. Harry and I don’t do that. But —”

Ginny looked up back up at her, hopeful.

“If Harry does anything with the diary, he’ll tell me about it. We tell each other every- thing, and when he does I can warn him and I think he ought to get rid of it. Harry listens to me, er, most of the time. That’s the best I can do, alright? But I will do my best to get it away from him before he gets hurt. I promise.”

Ginny stared at Violet, taking in her words. She looked like she wanted to argue, but no more fight seemed to be left in her. Finally she sniffed, nodded, and stuck out her hand. It was curled into a fist, except for her little finger, stuck out in a crook.

“Pinkie promise?”

Violet took it without hesitation.

“Pinkie promise.”


	16. Literary Encounters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet had hoped that, in the coming days, Harry would come to her with the strange diary and share what he’d found, and then Violet could caution him against interacting with it and perhaps even convince him to destroy it. She was sure that Harry would approach her soon — she’d even spent time going over what to say in her head, rehearsing lines of intrigue and suspicion so to seem as natural as possible.

That wasn’t  _ really _ lying, as far as Violet was concerned. Just a bit of acting, to protect herself from having to reveal what Ginny had told her.

And yet, as the days dragged into weeks, Harry did  _ not _ come and talk to her about the diary. He spoke of other things; classes and homework and complaints about Lockhart — the usual. Nothing interesting, not even a hint that he was lugging around an extremely dangerous and manipulative magical notebook. As frustrated as Violet was, she was downright carefree when compared to poor Ginny Weasley, who looked on the verge of a breakdown every time she set eyes on Harry. There were dark circles under her eyes, and Violet frequently caught her gnawing anxiously at what was left of her fingernails. Ginny would stare at Violet as well, across the Great Hall during mealtimes — a pair of wild, nervous eyes boring into her from the other side of the room was enough to put Violet on edge at the best of times.

As the Easter holidays rolled around, Violet and the rest of the second years were given a brand new source of stress: The time had come to choose their subjects for the third year, a matter that Cassius stressed to them should be taken very seriously.

“It could affect your whole future,” he told Violet and Tracey as they pored over lists of new subjects, making them with checks.

“So we keep all our old subjects, too?” Violet asked, wanting to be sure she understood things right. Cassius nodded.

“Those are core classes, so yeah. You’ll be stuck with those all the way through seventh year.”

“Ooh, Care of Magical Creatures!” Tracey exclaimed, reading further down the list than Violet had. She nudged Violet’s shoulder pointedly. “Maybe we’ll get to study some of those horribles monsters you like so much.”

“I don’t  _ like _ them,” Violet muttered, her face feeling rather hot. “I just think they’re neat, that’s all . . .”

Violet and Tracey  _ did _ sign up for Care of Magical Creatures in the end, because Cassius assured them it was a fun and interesting class on its own merit — and they would, in fact, be meeting all sorts of strange and terrible monsters. For the rest of her classes, Violet chose the subjects that her mother had studied. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes were the subjects covered in the stack of books Violet had been mysteriously given at Christmas during her first year had Hogwarts. Their pages were covered with scribbles and notations written in a loopy, pleasant handwriting that Violet had been doing her best to emulate, and on the inside covers was written a single short phrase that made Violet’s heart skip a beat every time she looked at it:  _ This books belongs to Lily Evans. _

Violet signed up for her subjects with certainty. She’d read each book cover to cover multiple times, and with her mother’s notes she’d been able to understand most of the content. It felt right, to follow in her mother’s footsteps. In Violet’s mind, it brought them closer than they could ever really be.

 

When the Quidditch season began again and Harry still showed no signs of telling her about Tom Riddle’s diary, Violet finally had enough. She waited on the marble staircase, foot tapping angrily, until Harry and his friends passed by on the way down to the Quidditch pitch. Violet stepped out in front of her brother and glared at him.

“ _ You’ve _ been keeping secrets,” she accused firmly. “That’s not fair, and I think it’s well past time you let me in on it, don’t you?”

Harry mouth fell open in shock.

“What makes you think I’m keeping secrets?” he said, and Violet prodded him hard in the chest.

“Because I’m your  _ sister _ , Harry, and I know when you’re hiding things from me because you don’t do a very good job of it. You’re not getting yourself into trouble again, are you? Harry, I really mean it —”

“I’m not getting into trouble, I swear!” said Harry quickly. He looked around at Ron and Hermione to back him up; Ron nodded enthusiastically, but Hermione was doing a poor job of covering the skeptical grimace on her face. “Look — I’ll tell you all about it after the match, alright? I promise. We’ll meet up at the pitch and —”

“I’m not going to the match today,” Violet said. “If you’ve got better things to do than keep me in the loop, then I have better things to do than watch you fight to stay on your bloody broomstick. When you’re ready to talk you can come find me in the library.”

And then she turned smartly on her heel and stomped back up the staircase, leaving Harry staring after her in shock. She felt a bit rotten for snapping at him like that, and even more so for missing out on the game of Quidditch. But this was  _ important _ , and Harry had been awfully distant anyways, even if he weren’t hiding something from her. They needed to have a talk, twin to twin. Then everything would be set right.

The library was completely empty when Violet arrived. Even Madam Pince had left her desk, and the entire rest of the school was down at the Quidditch pitch waiting for the game to start. In silence, Violet resumed her search through the shelves and stacks for any more books about monsters that might give her insight to what it was that had been terrorizing the school.

She had just shoved a large, heavy tome bound in flaking brown scales back onto the shelf when somebody called her name.

“Violet?” whispered a familiar voice from what sounded like a few shelves over. “Are you here?”

“Hermione?” Violet called, stepping back out into the aisle. Sure enough, Hermione Granger was creeping around the corner, alone and wringing her hands in excitement. “What are you doing here? I thought you were watching the game —”

“Harry heard the voice again,” Hermione said, her eyes bright and focused. “On the stairs, he said he heard it talking about killing again and I realized — Oh, I’ve been so  _ stupid _ , it all makes sense —!”

Hermione looked around nervously before stepping forward and whispering, “I need your help getting into the Restricted Section. I think I know what’s been causing the attacks.”

Violet was stunned. According to Harry, Hermione was the most upstanding, rule-obeying person he had ever known, and now she wanted to break into the forbidden part of the library?

“What do you need me to do?” Violet asked, grinning.

It was painfully simple to get into the Restricted Section; while Violet slipped on her Ghost Ring and stepped right through the metal gate that separated this portion of the library from the rest of it, Hermione stood watch and whispered out the name of the book that they needed to find. Violet was very careful not to touch any of the books on the shelves without reading their titles. The last time she and Harry had gone looking in the Restricted Section the first book they grabbed had screamed so loudly Filch had heard them and come running from across the castle. And any old book that had to be attached to its shelf by a metal chain was not something that Violet cared to pry into.

Fortunately, the book that she was told to find was not held down in chains, nor was it as tattered and bloodstained as some of its fellows seemed to be. The title was etched in flaking gold leaf down the thick spine:  _ Bestiarium Magicum _ . It was bound in pale leather that was strangely soft to the touch, and it was very, very heavy. Violet slipped off her ring, tucked the old book under her arm, and put the ring back on her pointer finger. As expected, along with her clothes and her body, the book turned a ghostly, transparent silver and passed straight through the gate with her. Hermione squealed with glee at the sight of it.

“I should have known all along,” she said, taking the book from Violet’s hands and resting it on a nearby table. “Look, I’ll show you —”

The pages were very thin and delicate, though the printed ink stood out dark and clear on the paper as Hermione flipped quickly through the tome. Violet caught glimpses of full illustrations of nightmarish creatures — lying in wait, feasting on unfortunate pray, dead and dissected to display their gruesome anatomy.

Hermione was flipping through pages at a blinding speed and then —

“ _ Aha _ !”

She pushed the book toward Violet, who read:

 

_ Of the many fearsome beasts and monsters that roam our land, there is none more curious or more deadly than the Basilisk, known also as the King of Serpents. This snake, which may reach gigantic size and live many hundreds of years, is born from a chicken’s egg, hatched beneath a toad. Its methods of killing are most wondrous, for aside from its deadly and venomous fangs, the Basilisk has a murderous stare, and all who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death. Spiders flee before the Basilisk, for it is their mortal enemy, and the Basilisk flees only from the crowing of the rooster, which is fatal to it. _

 

“It’s a giant snake,” Violet breathed, staring at the accompanying illustration of the massive, writhing coils of a great serpent. “Of course it’s a giant bloody snake . . . That’s why Harry can hear it.”

She turned to Hermione, who was beaming.

“Harry’s right — you  _ are _ brilliant.”

“But look at this,” Hermione said, now blushing brightly as she pointed out the passage: “ _ All who are fixed with the beam of its eye shall suffer instant death _ .” But nobody  _ has _ looked it in the eye, yet. Colin was found with his camera. Justin Finch-Fletchly must have looked through Nearly Headless Nick —”

“And Nick couldn’t die  _ again _ —”

“Right! And do you remember when we found Mrs. Norris? There was water all over the floor, she must have seen its reflection on the floor. That’s why they’re all Petrified! Oh, Violet, we’ve solved it! We can tell Dumbledore and he’ll know what to look for now.”

“Does it say how to kill it?” Violet asked. “Besides the cock’s crow — Oh! The  _ roosters _ , Hermione, something’s been killing Hagrid’s roosters!”

“I know!” said Hermione excitedly. “It all fits! I can’t believe nobody’s figured it out before — this book has just been sitting here all these years, and surely  _ someone _ must have checked it out and read it. The Chamber of Secrets was first opened fifty years ago, how could it have taken this long to solve it?”

Violet was struck with a thought.

“Myrtle,” she said suddenly. “Moaning Myrtle — when I asked her how she died, she said there was a boy’s voice speaking in a different language, and when she looked out to tell him off  _ that’s _ when she died. That must have been the Heir of Slytherin setting the Basilisk on her!”

“Wait, what?” Hermione said, eyes widening. “ _ Moaning Myrtle _ was the girl who was killed fifty years ago? She told you that?”

“Of course,” said Violet. “I went and talked to her after the Deathday Party.”

“And she just  _ told _ you how she died?” said Hermione incredulously. Violet nodded.

“Myrtle was glad to talk about it, really. She said no one had ever asked her before.”

Hermione’s mouth opened and closed several times like a fish out of water gasping for hair, before finally snapping shut. It was clear the little cogs of her mind were working furiously.

“Moaning Myrtle died in the bathroom . . .” muttered Hermione. “And a massive, ancient serpent has been moving through the school undetected . . . I wonder . . .”

All around the library little quills and ink pots were set up on the tables and desks. Hermione grabbed one of them now and, before Violet could protest, started scribbling in the margins of the old tome.

“Pipes,” she said proudly, showing Violet the little diagram she had drawn of a snake wiggling its way through a series of tubes. Hermione had also helpfully written the word ‘pipes’ next to the drawing. She grinned back at Violet. “Hogwarts is full of old pipes and tunnels from when they implemented proper plumbing in the 1700s. I’ll bet the Basilisk has been using them to get around without being seen!”

“How on earth do you know when Hogwarts installed its plumbing?” Violet asked faintly. Hermione’s cheeks went pink again.

“It’s in  _ Hogwarts, A History _ . I just thought it was interesting . . .”

Violet certainly understood taking an interest in obscure things that other people might find insignificant, but . . . plumbing? Really?

The two girls stared awkwardly at one another for a moment. Hermione cleared her throat and looked away.

“Alright, so we’ve got enough proof, then. We can take this to Professor Dumbledore —” As Violet watched in further alarm, Hermione grabbed hold of the page about Basilisks and tore it straight from the book, “— and make him talk to Moaning Myrtle, and  _ then _ —”

Distantly, they heard the double doors of the library click open. Both girls hushed themselves immediately. There was a long, tense moment of silence . . . and then the sound of quiet footsteps could be heard moving up the center aisle. Slow and soft, not at all like Madam Pince’s sharp, efficient steps. But who would be coming into the library when the Quidditch game was going on.

Violet moved to peek around the corner and see who it was, but was stopped by Hermione grabbing hold of her arm. The other girl shook her head fiercely, face pale, and pointed to her own eyes. She mimed bringing her finger across her throat and stuck out her tongue, and Violet understood at once: if she looked and the Basilisk was there, it would kill her instantly. But only if she looked  _ directly _ at it.

As the footsteps drew nearer, Violet gave Hermione a gentle shove back toward the end of the row. The pair of them edged around the bookcase, keeping quiet and close together. Violet dug her hands into the pocket of her robes, searching frantically for something she knew to be there . . . and then she found it. Smooth and flat, Violet closed her hand around the small, circular mirror that Harry had given her for Christmas. She held it up to show Hermione, who nodded vigorously in understanding. As they edged nearer to the corner Hermione took the mirror from Violet’s hand and, very carefully, stuck it around the corner. She tilted it back and forth for a moment, then pulled it back and nodded at Violet. Very quickly, Violet and Hermione dashed across the aisle and hid behind the end of the next bookcase. Hermione stuck the mirror out again and tilted it.

Violet fidgeted, waiting for the all clear. Hermione was holding her breath as she looked around the corner through the small mirror; she must have seen something, to be waiting as long as she was. As she stood there, anxiously waiting, Violet realized something chilling.

The footsteps had stopped.

“Is it safe?” Violet breathed, leaning close to whisper into Hermione’s ear.

But Hermione didn’t answer. Her hand was still held out around the edge of the bookshelf, mirror angled in her palm. When Violet nudged her anxiously, Hermione didn’t move at all. When Violet pinched her, she didn’t even flinch. And she still wasn’t breathing.

Violet ran.

Her feet pounded on the wooden floor of the library, breaths coming fast and shallow with fear. Blind panic was surging through Violet’s veins as she sprinted toward the double doors — she had no plan, no idea of where to run or what to do. All she knew was that she  _ had _ to get away. She had to warn people and get help for Hermione and —

As Violet skidded around the corner, she stopped herself just in time to avoid running into a small figure standing in the middle of the aisle.

“Ginny!” Violet gasped, grabbing the girl by the shoulders. “Ginny, we have to go, the monster is here, it’s not safe —”

Ginny Weasley wasn’t looking at her. She didn’t appear to be looking at anything at all. Her face was corpse-white and slack, and she was very cold to the touch. Violet searched for any signs of life in Ginny’s glazed, unfocused eyes, for a moment seeing a flicker of movement reflected back at her in the irises and then —

 

Violet’s nose was extremely itchy.

That was what it felt like at first — a hot, intense itch that was slowly spreading across her face, across her cheeks and down her throat. Violet tried to swallow. Her mouth was so dry she could barely feel her own tongue, and there was a terrible taste in the back of her throat. Sharp and metallic, it burned all the way down to her stomach. The itching sensation was racing across her arms and legs now like a forest fire crossing a field, singeing everything in its path.

With great difficulty, Violet coughed.

“Oh, thank heavens!” said a woman’s voice from above her.

Violet’s vision was strangely cloudy. It hurt to blink, her eyes were so dry, but she couldn’t understand why they would be. She was in the library with Hermione, and they’d found out —

Immediately, fear clenched around Violet’s heart.

“ _ Ginny _ !” she croaked, trying to move — her limbs were extremely stiff and uncooperative and it didn’t feel like she was standing upright anymore.

“Easy now, dear,  _ easy _ ,” said the same woman’s voice. Violet felt something cold press to her forehead and gasped. Her skin still felt like it was on fire. “You’ll be stiff for a while yet, I’m afraid . . .”

“Where’s —” Violet’s throat felt as though it were packed with sawdust. She could make out dark shapes moving around her now, hovering over her body. She realized she was lying down, but couldn’t begin to explain how she’d got there. “Where’s the monster?”

“Not here,” said another familiar voice, a man’s this time. Violet blinked rapidly to bring the moisture back to her eyes, and slowly the figures above her came into focus. One of them was Madam Pomfrey, who was now dabbing at her face with a damp rag, and the other was Professor Snape, holding an empty beaker that contained the remnants of some dark, reddish-brown fluid. Violet realized she was in the hospital wing.

“Was I Petrified?” she asked, her voice still coming out horribly weak and scratchy. Madam Pomfrey’s face softened into a smile.

“Yes, dear, I’m afraid you were,” she said. “But it’s over now, don’t you worry.”

“How long —” Violet tried to sit up, but found her spine still felt extremely rigid. She flopped back against the soft mattress with a huff while Madam Pomfrey tutted at her.

“I did warn you about the stiffness, didn’t I? Give the potion time to work before you go and hurt yourself.”

“How  _ long _ ?” Violet asked again, more loudly. She was feeling very heavy, but also very riled up. Ginny could still be out there, and if Dumbledore hadn’t been told about the Basilisk  yet —

“You were found in the library,” said Professor Snape from beside her, “along with Miss Granger, over three weeks ago. The two of you were brought to the hospital wing and have been here ever since.”

“Hermione!” Violet gasped. She tried to sit up again, this time faring well enough to actually lift her head from the pillow. “Is she —”

“I’m here,” called another weak, shaky voice from across the room. In the bed opposite Violet, Hermione was sitting up in bed, waving with one hand and holding a nearly empty glass of water in the other. She looked fully alive and unharmed, and Violet let out a great sigh of relief. The feeling was cut short as she registered exactly what Professor Snape had told her.

“Three  _ weeks _ ?” said Violet incredulously. Her voice cracked, sending her into a fit of painful coughs. Madam Pomfrey tutted again and pushed a glass into her hands. It was full of cool, clear water, which Violet drank greedily to try and put out the flames that were still tearing through her insides. When the glass was empty she shoved it back into Madam Pomfrey’s hands.

“Where’s Harry?” was Violet’s next question. She started trying to push the blankets off of herself, fighting Madam Pomfrey all the while. “I want to see Harry — let me go —”

“Mr. Potter is meeting with the headmaster as we speak,” said Professor Snape, standing awkwardly to the side as Violet squirmed her way out of the matron’s grasp. “He’ll surely come visit you once you’re fully recovered, Miss Potter —”

“Not if I get to him first,” Violet grunted as she slipped off the edge of the bed. Her feet hit the floor — and then so did the rest of her, as her legs had just collapsed out from under her.

“That’s enough!” cried Madam Pomfrey. She came around the bed and grabbed Violet beneath the armpits, lifting her easily back into the hospital cot. “My goodness, girl! Settle down now and stay put or I’ll have to Petrify you again for your own good.”

The blankets were thrown back over Violet’s stiff, aching legs and tucked in tightly for good measure, and she was left to do nothing but pout as Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape went round attending to the rest of the Petrified students. Even when all the stiffness and painful itching had gone — “I swear, I’m fine now!” — they were all contained in the infirmary until evening rolled around, forced to bend their arms and legs and take deep breaths until their lungs hurt to prove that they were fully un-Petrified.

They all walked together — Violet, Hermione, Justin Finch-Fletchly, Colin Creevey, and an extremely baffled Nearly Headless Nick — down to the Great Hall. The murmurs and voices could be heard from halfway up the marble staircase, and as soon as the doors swung open and the five stepped inside —

“ _ Violet! _ ”

Violet had taken five steps into the Great Hall when, footsteps growing louder as they drew closer, she was nearly knocked off of her feet by the force of Tracey’s crushing hug.

It was pandemonium. Friends of the Petrified students were all rushing forward at once to greet them. Violet could barely breathe with the force of Tracey’s arms around her, and the air was knocked out of her all over again when Cassius arrived and enveloped them both in his long, lanky arms.

Sweetest of all was Harry’s hug. He pushed past everyone around Violet and lifted her clear off her feet. She flung her arms around him as well, tears of happiness streaming down her face. Before letting them go, Madam Pomfrey had shared the news that the monster was no longer a threat to anyone, and that the Chamber of Secrets had been sealed for good — all thanks to Harry.

When Violet asked what all had happened while she was out, the answers came in a rush of words from both Harry and Ron.

They’d found the page Violet and Hermione had taken from the library, and understood what the word ‘pipes’ meant, and then they’d followed the spiders into the forest and found Ron’s dad’s car there, and Tom Riddle was actually You- Know-Who all along, and Harry had a sword, and Harry killed the Basilisk, and Harry had nearly  _ died _ , and Lockhart had lost his whole memory, and something about Lucius Malfoy and Dobby and  _ socks _ —

It was far too much for Violet to take in at once, but she was too happy to be surrounded by all her friends and the people she loved to complain. She hadn’t been able to stop crying since stepping into the Great Hall, and the arrival of Hagrid only set her off again. Harry and Ron said that he had been blamed for opening the Chamber of Secrets for some absurd reason, to the point that the Minister of Magic himself had come and taken him to wizard jail. Hagrid certainly did seem a bit thinner than last Violet had seen him, and there were dark circles under his eyes even as they gleamed with joy at seeing everyone running up to greet him.

Violet was too happy to even care that Slytherin didn’t win the House Cup. Her heart sank slightly when Professor McGonagall announced that all exams had been cancelled as a school treat, but soared again when Dumbledore announced that, unfortunately, Professor Lockhart would not be returning to his post next year. Quite a few teachers joined in the cheering that greeted this news.

 

The rest of the final term passed in a haze of blazing sunshine. Hogwarts was back to normal with only a few, small difference — Defense Against the Dark Arts classes were cancelled and Lucius Malfoy had been sacked as a school governor. Harry explained to Violet exactly what had happened with Ginny and Riddle’s diary, and how Mr. Malfoy was responsible for it all. Draco was no longer strutting around the school as though he owned the place. On the contrary, he looked resentful and sulky. On the other hand, Ginny Weasley was perfectly happy again.

She apologized to Violet over and over, no matter how many times Violet assured her she held no ill will; she’d seen Ginny’s eyes in the library that day, before being Petrified. There was no consciousness there, no hint of malice or awareness of what she was doing. It was as though she were under a trance — that’s exactly what it was, as Violet later learned, her poor little soul being drained and used by Lord Voldemort himself.

Too soon, it was time for the journey home on the Hogwarts Express. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius spent their last remaining hours in which they were allowed to do magic before the holiday practicing their Sieze and Pull Charm and whipping small objects across the room at high speeds toward one another. They played Exploding Snap and practiced disarming each other by magic, along with Harry, Hermione, and all the Weasleys. Harry was getting especially good at it.

On the train, Violet joined Tracey and Cassius in a compartment to themselves, talking and laughing and enjoying each others company for as long as they had left.

As the Hogwarts Express began to slow, Tracey grabbed a quill and parchment and quickly scribbled out her phone number and address down on a piece of paper.

“You  _ have _ to come and visit this time,” she said to Violet, shoving the paper into her hand. “I can’t stand another month without talking to you, let alone two. Do you promise?”

“But the Dursleys —” Violet started, flushing uncomfortably. “I  _ want _ to come see you, but they might not let me . . .”

“Then give me  _ your _ address,” Tracey said, “and I’ll have my Dad drive us to see  _ you _ instead.”

“You’re mad,” said Violet. A grin was spreading across her face. “I can’t wait to see the Dursley’s faces.”

“ _ I _ won’t be seeing either of you,” Cassius drawled. He was sprawled entirely across the whole seat opposite Violet and Tracey, still dressed in his wizard’s robes. “Mother and I are going to Spain for the summer, so I might not even get any of your letters until we get home. What a shame it’d be, coming to back to the house and finding no letter waiting at all . . .”

“Of course we’ll write!” Tracey said. “Won’t we, Violet?”

“That’s what you said last year,” Cassius sniffed, pretending to examine his fingernails. He shot a wink at Violet. “’Course, I don’t suppose a mad house-elf can be planned for, eh?”

“Shove off,” Violet muttered, though she couldn’t hide her grin. “Maybe next time it’ll be a mad goblin, or a mad dwarf. Surely some of them are still out for revenge after what Lockhart put them through.”

The three of them were still laughing as the train pulled to a stop at King’s Cross Station. Fred and George helped Violet unload her trunk and took turns mussing up her hair before saying goodbye. Violet met up with Harry, who was saying his own goodbyes to Ron and Hermione, and smiled bravely at him.

“Ready to go home?” she asked her brother. Harry smiled wistfully back at her.

“Never,” he said.

And together, they walked back through the gateway to the Muggle world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for seeing this through with me, for all the comments and kudos and support!!! It means the world to me and has pushed me to keep up and push through the difficult parts of writing this, and inspired me to keep going.
> 
> As I've said before, I do plan to rewrite the entire series, all seven books. I am currently working on Prisoner of Azkaban, but unfortunately it's gonna be a while before I finish it and begin posting. Please be patient, I'm doing my best!!
> 
> Again, thank you for coming on this journey with me! Violet will be back, hopefully soon!


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